F I N D

N O

O N E

(An Addison Shine Mystery—Book 8)

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).

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

Rebecca Palmer's nightly routine never varied. She’d always believed that success was built on consistency. It was a philosophy that had never failed her. At the same time each night, she'd arrange her medications in precise order on her marble bathroom counter: vitamin D, calcium, iron supplement, and finally her sleeping pill. She'd learned long ago that Seattle's perpetual gray skies required certain adjustments to maintain optimal health.

The bathroom's recessed lighting cast a soft glow across the counter, highlighting the gleaming prescription bottles arranged with military precision. Outside her penthouse windows, Seattle's skyline twinkled against the night sky, a view she'd paid dearly for but never tired of seeing. Even now, at 11:15 PM, the city pulsed with life far below.

Rebecca adjusted the temperature of the water flowing from her designer faucet—never too cold to shock the system or too warm to fully dissolve the medications. The crystal water glass caught the dim light as she raised it to her lips, swallowing each pill easily. She was, after all, something of a pro at this.

The bathroom mirror reflected her perfect posture and the methodical way she brushed her honey-blonde hair. Her silk pajamas seemed to shimmer slightly with every movement. The steady rhythm of the brush through her hair helped quiet her mind after another long day of charity board meetings and social obligations.

She paused mid-stroke, frowning slightly at her reflection. Was that a shadow of movement behind her in the mirror? No—just her imagination, fueled by too many true crime podcasts. God, she‘d gotten so obsessed with those podcasts. Surely it couldn’t be mentally healthy, right?

She continued brushing her hair, each stroke slow and deliberate. When she was done, she set the brush down and took a single step towards her bedroom. And that’s when the first wave of dizziness hit. She immediately knew something was wrong—the bathroom felt slanted, her knees like jelly, her head nothing more than a miniature whirlwind.

Rebecca leaned to the left and gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white as she fought to stay upright. The room tilted sickeningly, her reflection blurring and doubling in the mirror. Had she taken something wrong? Mixed up her medications?

The bottles on the counter seemed to dance before her eyes: Ambien, prescribed by Dr. Matthews for her occasional insomnia. Vitamin D3, recommended by her nutritionist. Calcium with magnesium, iron supplement, fish oil capsules—all precisely arranged, all familiar. Nothing new, nothing that could explain this sudden vertigo. Everything was well-planned and methodical. She’d done this every night for…for how long? In the dizziness she was currently fighting, she couldn’t be certain.

She stumbled toward her bedroom, desperate to reach her phone on the nightstand. Speed dial one: building security. Speed dial two: her private physician. If she could just make it those few steps...

The plush carpet seemed to shift beneath her feet like quicksand. Her limbs felt impossibly heavy, responding to her commands with frustrating delay. Through rapidly dimming vision, she caught a glimpse of movement in her doorway—a dark figure, watching. The shape was human but somehow wrong, distorted by whatever was causing the dizzy spell. But from what her disoriented mind could tell, the figure appeared to be wearing medical scrubs and a surgical mask.

She tried to scream, but her throat wouldn't cooperate, producing only a weak whimper as her legs gave way. The carpet rushed up to meet her, soft as a cloud. Her last conscious thought was of her strict schedule, her careful routines. All those precautions, all that control, and yet here she was, helpless as a child.

The last thing Rebecca Palmer saw was a new set of practical medical shoes approaching across her plush carpet. Then darkness claimed her.

She drifted in and out of consciousness after that, awareness coming in fragments. A sharp pinch in her arm, followed by the cold slide of metal against skin. The sensation of being moved, positioned with clinical precision. A strange tugging feeling that seemed to pull at her very essence.

Time lost all meaning. Had it been minutes? Hours? She tried to move, to cry out, but her body refused to respond. Occasionally, she caught glimpses through half-closed eyes: gloved hands adjusting equipment, clear tubing filled with dark fluid, the steady drip-drip-drip of her life flowing away.

Her killer worked in silence, methodically, as if performing any routine medical procedure. No rage, no passion, no personal connection—just the quiet efficiency of someone completing a necessary task. In her final moments of lucidity, Rebecca wondered if this was how all her careful planning would end: not with violence or drama, but with an eerie and sterile precision.

The darkness was patient, waiting, and eventually it swallowed her completely. Rebecca Palmer, with all her schedules and routines, all her wealth and connections, slipped away without a sound.

CHAPTER ONE

Addison jolted awake, heart hammering against her ribs. The nightmare clung to her like cobwebs. The same nightmare that had been popping up for the past few weeks like some old, demented security blanket.

Jane's face, young and scared, fading into shadows. Her sister's features were frozen in that last moment, exactly as Addison remembered them from day during the Christmas season: cheeks flushed from the mall's heating, dark hair escaping from her careful braids, eyes widening in what might have been surprise, or fear, or something else entirely. The same dream that had haunted her since that Christmas shopping trip nearly fifteen years ago, when she'd looked away for just a moment and lost her sister forever.

The dream always ended the same way—Jane disappearing into a crowd of faceless shoppers, while Addison remained rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to call out. She'd relived that moment countless times, both awake and asleep, but her subconscious had a way of making it feel fresh, immediate, as if it were happening all over again. In the dream, all of the other shoppers are faceless, just walking bodies with no eyes, no mouths—all featureless and somehow horrific at the same time.

With that tinge of fear still parading through her, Addison fumbled for her phone on the nightstand, squinting at the display: 5:47 AM. Close enough to her usual wake-up time. Sleep wouldn't return now anyway, not with Jane's ghost lingering in the corners of her mind. The dream felt especially potent lately, perhaps triggered by news from ten days ago concerning another unexplained death that the bureau had officially chalked up to Fearmonger. Each victim they found without a mark on them echoed with the mystery of Jane's disappearance—that terrible uncertainty of not knowing exactly what had happened, of being left with only questions and theories.

And the fact that her father had, for some reason, sent her Jane’s childhood diary certainly wasn’t helping. After she’d gotten the fingerprint analysis back and discovered that her father, Gregory Shine, was the sender, she’d attempted to call him several times. But he wasn’t answering. And that, to her, only deepened the mystery of it all.

Addison pushed back the covers and padded to her kitchen, muscle memory guiding her through the motions of making coffee in the pre-dawn gloom. Her apartment was quiet except for the soft whir of the coffee grinder and her own measured breathing. The familiar ritual helped ground her in reality, in the present. She had cases to solve, lives to save. The past would have to wait, even if it never truly let go.

Through her kitchen window, she could see the first hints of dawn touching the Seattle skyline. The city was beautiful at this hour, suspended between night and day, when the streets were still quiet and anything seemed possible. As she took it in, the familiar, soft mewling of Snape sounded out from her feet as he rubbed against her, seeking attention. She scratched him absently between the ears, her mind still bogged down by the nightmare.

The coffee maker gurgled its way through its cycle, filling the kitchen with the rich aroma of her favorite dark roast blend. Addison reached for her favorite mug and tried to focus on the day ahead. She had reports to file and a growing stack of cold cases that demanded her attention. The Fearmonger's latest victim had left them with more questions than answers, but that was nothing new. And while she had not yet pleaded with SAIC Loomis to allow her back on the case, she had still taken it upon herself to become familiar with not only the details of the new victim, but also the scant bit of new information on the Fearmonger case. Not that there was much to act on; Fearmonger was being just as careful and efficient as he had back when Loomis had briefly put her in the middle of the case.

Her phone buzzed just as the coffee maker sputtered its last drops into the carafe. Loomis's name flashed on the screen. Speak of the devil… she thought. Addison knew that early morning calls from the Special Agent in Charge rarely brought good news.

"This is Shine," she answered, already turning her mind to getting ready for work. She knew she could get dressed and ready to face the world outside in under ten minutes. Less, if the situation really called for it.

"We've got a case I’ll need you and Esposito to look at," Loomis said without preamble. "Similar to the Sullivan case from three days ago. I need you at the office for briefing in thirty."

Addison's pulse quickened. The Sullivan case had been unusual enough to keep her up nights, a strange one indeed. Certain elements of the case reminded her of some of the classic horror novels she’d grown up reading…and still read from time to time. "Similar how?"

"You'll see when you get here. Try to make it quick, yeah?" The line went dead.

Addison set the phone down and said, “Yeah,” in response.

As she quickly got dressed, she wished this had been one of the nights Javier had stayed over. They'd fallen into a practice of swapping places—she'd stay at his house one night, and he'd stay at her apartment the next. And then, for the sake of trying to keep the relationship as fresh as possible (and not to get tired of one another), they'd decided to take two nights a week for themselves. But on the mornings they left for work together, Addison had started to appreciate the bond of it all…of getting ready together, having coffee together, heading out of the door and driving to work together. It was especially helpful on mornings like this when they were called in to work early.

She got dressed, grabbed a Pop-Tart and a travel mug of coffee, and was out the door exactly nine minutes after Loomis had called. When she got on the road, she did have to admit that going out earlier than usual did have its benefits—namely avoiding the trickle of morning traffic that usually began around 7:00. And because of the lack of traffic, she made great time getting to the office.

She walked through the doors of the Seattle field office at 7:12, just twenty-six minutes after Loomis had called. The early morning quiet of the corridors belied the tension she could feel building. Two similar deaths in three days was never a coincidence. The security guard at the front desk nodded as she passed, used to her early arrivals. Her footsteps echoed off the polished floors as she made her way to the briefing room.

She found Loomis in the conference room, dark circles under her eyes suggesting she'd been here most of the night. Her usually immaculate suit showed signs of wear, and empty coffee cups littered the table in front of her. And, of course, Javier was already there. Kiss-ass, she thought with a bit of good humor. He was shuffling through crime scene photographs from the Sullivan case as she came in. He glanced up to her and smiled warmly, with a bit of mischief.

"Rebecca Palmer," Loomis began, skipping pleasantries and good-morning formalities. She turned her laptop toward them so that they could see a picture of Palmer, taken from what appeared to be a LinkedIn profile. The photo showed a well-maintained woman in her early forties, the kind of polished appearance that spoke of wealth and careful attention to detail. "Forty-two socialite, found dead in her Queen Anne condo this morning by her housekeeper. Just like Sullivan from several days ago, her entire body seemed to be drained of blood. Complete exsanguination. The ME is still on site….puzzled, clearly."

“Any idea on time of death?” Addison asked.

"The ME's preliminary estimate puts it between midnight and 2 AM. Palmer's housekeeper found her at 5:30 when she arrived to start breakfast. According to the very limited information we got from the police, everything about the place seemed routine was normal. Medications laid out, evening preparations completed. Nothing to suggest she expected any trouble."

Addison straightened in her chair, her mind recalling the Sullivan scene. The body had been laid out in bed as if in a weird sort of respect. But Sullivan had not been discovered for several days. Rigor mortis had set in, and the paleness that had come from the lack of blood seemed almost natural.

“Complete exsanguination…no visible wounds," Loomis said, her tone grim. "I don't need to tell you how impossible that should be."

No, she didn't. Addison's mind was already racing through the possibilities, each more disturbing than the last. Two bloodless bodies in three days, with no obvious method of extraction. This wasn't just a case anymore. This was the start of a pattern. And she did everything she could to keep thoughts and images of vampires out of her often chaotic head.

"I want you two to take point on this," Loomis continued, gathering up scattered crime scene photos. "You're our best chance at figuring out the medical angle. And it seems like that’s where we’re going to find the most answers on this one.”

Two victims, three days apart, found bloodless in their beds. No signs of struggle, no obvious trauma. It wasn't possible—and yet that was the case she and Javier were about to tackle.

She thought again of Fearmonger's victims. The similarities were there: the peaceful poses, the lack of obvious trauma, the questions that seemed to multiply with every new piece of evidence. But no, this was different. This killer wanted something specific. The blood itself was the point, not just the death.

They just had to figure out why. And with two victims already under their belt, this was likely only the beginning.

CHAPTER TWO

Queen Anne was beautiful in the early morning light, its historic mansions and tree-lined streets seemingly oblivious to the horror that waited inside one of its most exclusive condominiums. The sun cast long shadows across manicured lawns and designer landscaping, while early morning joggers and dog-walkers moved past the crime scene vehicles with nervous glances. Addison ducked under the crime scene tape stretched across Rebecca Palmer's front door, nodding to the uniformed officer standing guard. Javier walked along behind her, scanning every inch of the exterior with his usual intense gaze.

The lobby of the apartment building spoke of old money and discretion. The marble floors gleamed under crystal chandeliers, and a carefully curated art collection adorned walls designed to impress without overwhelming. The night doorman, still on duty and visibly shaken, had already given his statement: no disturbances, no unauthorized entries, no unusual deliveries. Just another quiet night in one of Seattle's most secure residential buildings.

Together, Addison and Javier entered the private elevator to Palmer's penthouse, their movements synchronized by years of partnership and fairly new, still-exciting, romantic relationship.

“You know,” Addison said, “the notes I looked at very briefly on the way here said there were no security issues…just like the doorman said.”

"So either our killer had the code, or they found another way in," Javier said.

The elevator came to a smooth stop several seconds later, and the doors opened directly into Palmer's foyer. As soon as she stepped out, Addison reached into her inner pocket and pulled on nitrile gloves. The condo's interior was a study in understated wealth: original hardwood floors from sustainable forests, crystal light fixtures that caught the morning sun, artwork that probably cost more than her annual salary. A Chihuly glass sculpture dominated one corner, its twisted forms casting colored shadows across the walls.

There were two local cops and a plainclothes detective on the scene. From what Addison could tell, the ME had already left—probably back at the coroner's office to assist with whatever needed to be set in place for the body's arrival. They walked over to the detective, and Javier took the lead.

“Special Agents Esposito and Shine,” he said, shaking the detective’s hand. He was a middle-aged man who had lost most of his hair. His squared chin supported a face that looked like it rarely smiled or frowned at all.

“Pleasure to meet you,” the detective said gruffly. He didn’t bother introducing himself; he simply went straight into the details, apparently glad to have the feds come in and take this nightmare off of his hands.

"The building has cameras in all common areas," the detective said. “Security’s pulling the footage now, but preliminary review shows nothing obvious. No suspicious persons, no delivery personnel, no maintenance workers. If our killer came through the lobby, they knew how to blend in."

The crime scene techs had already established their processing stations throughout the penthouse. Evidence markers dotted various surfaces, and the steady click of camera shutters provided a rhythm to their movement through the space. The air smelled faintly of fingerprint powder and cleaning products, underlaid with the subtle scent of expensive perfume.

They found the primary crime scene team still processing Palmer's bedroom. The morning sun streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating what should have been a peaceful scene. The view of Elliott Bay was spectacular, the kind of vista that cost millions to wake up to. Rebecca Palmer lay in her king-sized bed, positioned as if in deep sleep. Her honey-blonde hair was artfully arranged on the silk pillowcase, her expression serene. Only the unnatural pallor of her skin betrayed the truth.

"Room temperature is steady at sixty-eight degrees," reported one of the techs, making a note on her tablet. "Thermostat shows no variation in the past twenty-four hours. Humidity is constant at forty-five percent. Whoever did this wanted optimal conditions."

Addison approached the bed, her trained eye cataloging details. Palmer wore La Perla silk pajamas in pale blue, the fabric unwrinkled, suggesting minimal struggle. No signs of sexual assault. No defensive wounds on her manicured hands or toned arms. The bedding—Egyptian cotton with a thread count high enough to qualify as art—was undisturbed except where the body lay. Even the decorative pillows remained perfectly arranged, as if death had simply slipped in without disturbing a single element of Palmer's carefully curated world.

Palmer was pale. Addison also knew she would be cold to the touch.

"Just like Sullivan," Javier murmured from over her shoulder, voicing what they were both thinking. He moved to the windows, checking the locks. "All secure. No signs of tampering."

Three days ago, they'd stood in another bedroom, looking down at another bloodless corpse. Michael Sullivan, college professor, found in similar circumstances: peaceful expression, unmarked body, not a drop of blood left in his veins or at the scene. But Sullivan's modest Ravenna bungalow had been a far cry from Palmer's luxury penthouse. The victims' lifestyles couldn't have been more different, yet the crime scenes were mirror images in their clinical precision.

Addison leaned closer, examining Palmer's exposed skin. "No visible puncture marks, no injection sites." She gently lifted one of Palmer's hands, studying the fingertips. The victim's French manicure was perfect, not a chip or scratch to suggest a struggle. "No defensive wounds, but slight discoloration under the nails consistent with pre-death hypoxia. See the cyanotic tinge?"

"Some kind of sedative?"

"Probably. Our killer doesn't want them struggling." She moved to the en-suite bathroom, taking in the precise arrangement of medications on the counter. The marble surface gleamed, recently cleaned. "Victim was health-conscious. Vitamins, supplements, sleeping pills. Everything is arranged with almost obsessive precision."

"Easy to slip something extra into her routine," Javier observed, examining the shower stall. "No signs of forced entry here either. High-end security on all access points."

Addison nodded, photographing the medication bottles with her phone for evidence. Her gaze caught on the crystal water glass sitting beside them. "This needs to be bagged for prints and residue testing.”

A crime scene tech carefully bagged the glass while another began collecting water samples from various sources in the bathroom. Addison continued her examination, noting the expensive skincare products arranged by size and function, the professional-grade hair tools still plugged in, the damp towel hanging perfectly straight on its heated rack. Everything spoke of routine and order, right up until the moment that routine had been fatally disrupted.

Back in the bedroom, she completed her preliminary examination, frustration building with each passing moment. The scene was almost too clean, too perfect. Even the blood that should have stained the sheets or left trace evidence was completely absent. No spatter, no seepage, not even the minimal staining you'd expect from a simple IV insertion.

"Whoever did this knows what they're doing," she said finally, straightening up. Her back protested the movement; she'd been bent over the body longer than she'd realized. "The extraction process would have taken hours, but there's no sign of the equipment necessary for something like this. No blood spatter, no cleanup residue. It's like the blood just... vanished."

Javier's expression darkened. "So it almost has to be someone with medical experience."

"Yeah," Addison agreed. She pulled out her phone, scrolling through the photos from three days ago. The similarities were undeniable. "Two victims, same MO, same impossible cleanup. This level of medical knowledge, this precision—it has to be the same killer."

"But why take the blood? Black market sale?" Javier moved to the bedroom doorway, surveying the space with a cop's practiced eye. "There's good money in that kind of thing, I hear…as messed up as that sounds."

Addison shook her head slowly. "This feels more personal than that. The care taken with the bodies, the complete removal of blood—our killer wants something specific. Look at how they positioned her, how they took the time to arrange everything just so. This isn't about profit. It's about purpose. I think the clean-up…the absolute lack of any spillage, makes this about more than just the death…more than just the blood."

They spent another hour processing the scene, directing the techs to focus on specific areas: air vents that might have carried traces of sedative, drain traps that might hold blood residue, fabric fibers that might have caught on medical equipment. During this hour, the coroner came in and the body was moved, taken to the coroner’s office. But in the end, they found nothing to push them along any further. No convenient fingerprints, no dropped evidence, no witnesses.

Just another bloodless body in an immaculate room, adding to a pattern that grew more disturbing by the day.

As they prepared to leave, Addison took one final look at Rebecca Palmer's peaceful face. Two victims from different worlds, connected only by the precise manner of their deaths and the complete absence of their blood. And unless they could crack this case soon, Addison knew with grim certainty that they would soon be standing in another pristine bedroom, looking down at another bloodless body, wondering what was missing…and who would be next.

CHAPTER THREE

The morgue's familiar chill settled around Addison as she stood between two examination tables, studying the bodies of Rebecca Palmer and Michael Sullivan. She'd always believed death had a way of revealing truth—it’s one of the reasons she’d started her career as a medical examiner. You just had to know how to read the evidence. Even now, a little less than two hours into their postmortem examinations, the bodies were still yielding their secrets.

The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across Palmer's face, emphasizing the unnatural pallor of her skin. Unlike most corpses Addison had examined over her career, this one's coloring wasn't simply due to death's typical processes. The complete absence of blood had left Palmer's tissue with an almost translucent quality, like alabaster held up to light. Having seen the woman in her bedroom two hours ago and now under these harsh lights, the reality of what had happened to her seemed to hit a bit harder.

"Initial tox screens on Palmer came back positive for traces of midazolam," Dr. Chen, the attending pathologist, reported. His glasses reflecting the harsh overhead lighting as he consulted his tablet. "Same as Sullivan. But there's something odd about the concentrations."

"What do you mean?" Addison asked, moving closer to examine Palmer's neck area, looking for any signs of needle marks or bruising that might have been missed in the initial examination.

"The levels are precise—identical in both victims, down to the milligram. That's... unusual, to say the least. Even in controlled medical settings, you typically see some variation." Chen handed her the tablet, showing two nearly identical toxicology reports.

"Short-acting sedative," Addison mused, studying the numbers. "Common in medical procedures. Our killer wanted them conscious enough to be compliant but not enough to fight back." She handed the tablet back to Chen and reached for the magnifying glass sitting on the table behind her. As she reached for it, she spotted Javier standing by the back wall. He always tended to take the back seat in coroner's offices, knowing this was where she truly shined.

"The precision suggests someone with extensive medical knowledge,” Addison said. “They knew exactly how much to use to keep the victims subdued without risking respiratory failure. Not to mention being able to take all that blood without leaving a single drop."

"So they wanted them alive during the process?” Javier asked. “Why not just kill them outright?"

"Because dead blood doesn't flow the same way," Addison explained, her mind racing through years of medical training. "For complete exsanguination, you need the heart pumping, circulation maintaining blood flow. A living donor, even an unconscious one, makes the process much more efficient."

She leaned closer to Palmer's body, using the magnifying glass to examine the crook of the arm. Years of experience had taught her where to look, what subtle signs might reveal the killer's methodology. And there it was—almost invisible unless you knew exactly what to look for: a single puncture mark, pristinely placed in the median cubital vein.

"Got you," she murmured, satisfaction mixing with dread at what the evidence revealed. "Look at this, Javier. Perfect stick, first try. See how clean the entry is?"

Javier moved to her side, squinting at the nearly imperceptible mark. "Someone with serious medical training?"

"More than that. This is expert-level work. The kind of precision you only get from years of practice." She moved to Sullivan's body, finding an identical mark in the same location. She made no comment about how this had not been found in the coroner’s report. She’d only known to look for it because the injection site on Palmer had been very fresh. It had stood out more, whereas Sullivan’s had been almost invisible, given that his body had gone undiscovered for nearly three days.

"Our killer knows exactly what they're doing. They're not just medically trained—they're probably still actively practicing."

She reached for a pair of digital calipers, carefully measuring the needle mark. "Eighteen gauge, I'd estimate. Large enough for efficient blood collection, small enough to minimize tissue damage. The angle of entry suggests someone right-handed, working from the victim's right side. Probably used a butterfly needle with an extension set—it would allow them to move around without disturbing the needle placement."

"Could they have used a standard blood collection setup?" Javier asked, taking notes.

Addison shook her head. "Not for this volume. They would have needed something more sophisticated.”

“A phlebotomy pump, maybe,” Chen suggested.

“Or a modified dialysis setup,” Addison added. “The question is, where did they get the equipment? And where are they storing all this blood?"

She stepped back, studying both bodies with a critical eye. The lack of blood had affected the typical postmortem processes. No lividity, minimal rigor mortis. Even the tissue samples they'd taken had been a challenge, with no blood vessels to provide contrast during microscopic examination.

"The sedation, the perfect needle placement, the complete extraction—everything about these murders is clinical, methodical. There's no anger here, no passion. It's almost like..."

The implications were disturbing. Someone with this level of medical knowledge, this kind of access to equipment, could be working in any hospital or clinic in Seattle. They could be treating patients by day and hunting them by night.

"Like what?" Javier asked.

"Like a medical procedure gone wrong. Or maybe gone exactly as planned." She pulled off her gloves with a snap. "This isn't just murder—it's collection. Harvesting. We need to look into both victims' medical histories. Any procedures, any shared doctors or facilities."

Dr. Chen cleared his throat. "I've already started compiling their records. Something interesting came up in both their blood work from recent physicals. They both showed unusual antibody profiles—similar patterns of resistance to certain bloodborne pathogens."

Addison's pulse quickened. "How unusual?"

"Enough that they'd both been flagged for research purposes. In fact—" Chen consulted his tablet again, scrolling through several pages of data "—they were both part of a study being conducted by Dr. Thomas Wright, a hematologist at Seattle General. The antibody patterns suggest enhanced immunity to several viral infections. It's the kind of thing that would be invaluable for research into new treatments."

"That's our connection," Javier said, already pulling out his phone. "I'll get Wright's information and set up an interview."

"Pull their complete medical records," she told Chen. "Not just recent history—everything. Physical exams, blood work, dental records. I want to know every doctor they've seen, every test they've had done. Someone had to flag these antibody profiles initially. Someone had to know what made their blood special."

She moved to Sullivan's body again, examining his fingers. The nail beds showed the same discoloration she'd noticed on Palmer—evidence of hypoxia setting in as their blood volume dropped. The killer had watched this happen, had monitored their victims throughout the process. Had they taken vital signs? Documented the effects? Was this some twisted form of medical research?

"We should also look into any recent thefts from hospitals or medical supply companies," she told Javier. "The equipment needed for this kind of procedure isn't something you can just pick up at a pharmacy."

"I'll coordinate with local PD," he agreed, though he was already bringing his phone to his ear to make the call to Dr. Wright.

Addison returned to Palmer's body one last time, studying the peaceful expression on her face. Two victims, chosen not just for convenience but for something in their blood. Something special enough to kill for. The question was: what made their blood so valuable that someone would go to these lengths to obtain it? Or was it all just by chance?

"Run a full workup on the antibody profiles, please," she told Chen. "I want to know exactly what made these two special. And check if there are any other patients in the system with similar patterns. If our killer is working from medical records..."

"They might already have their next target picked out," Chen finished grimly.

She glanced at Palmer and Sullivan one last time before heading out. Whatever made their blood special had cost them their lives. She was determined to make sure they were the last victims of this methodical murderer.

CHAPTER FOUR

Seattle General Hospital buzzed with the controlled chaos of any medical center making the transition from early morning routine to the busier hours that came a bit later in the morning. The lobby was relatively quiet and peaceful as they approached the information desk, asking to be directed to Dr. Wright’s office.

After learning that Dr. Wright was located on the fifth floor—the Hematology department—Addison and Javier found themselves in another elevator, headed up. They remained silent as Addison still worked to process the details from the morning's autopsies. The perfect needle marks. The identical sedative doses. The meticulous extraction process. Their killer wasn't just medically trained—they were exceptional at what they did.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ping, revealing a corridor lined with research posters and glass-walled offices. Unlike the bustling emergency departments below, this floor had the hushed atmosphere of scientific inquiry. White coats moved between labs with purpose, and the occasional beep of equipment replaced the urgent calls of the trauma unit.

Halfway down the hallway, Rachel spotted the name Dr. Thomas Wright on the nameplate outside an office. Through the glass wall, they could see a man in his late forties hunched over a microscope, his salt-and-pepper hair catching the light from the window behind him. His office was immaculate—journals stacked with scientific precision, awards displayed without ostentation, and a whiteboard covered in complex diagrams and chemical formulas.

Javier rapped his knuckles against the glass door. Wright looked up, momentarily disoriented, like someone emerging from a deep dive. He blinked once, twice, then waved them in.

"FBI," Javier said, showing his credentials as they entered. "I'm Special Agent Esposito, and this is Dr. Shine. I spoke to someone earlier who said they’d let you know we were coming.”

“Yes, of course. Perfectly fine. Come on in.” He stepped away from the microscope and said, “What can I do for you?”

“We’re currently working a strange case,” Addison said. “And it’s led us in the direction of your research. We just had a few questions about the finer details.”

Wright removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose where they'd left faint indentations. "My research? What could the FBI possibly need to know about blood disorders?" His voice carried the slight clipped cadence of someone who'd spent years in academia.

Addison took the lead, settling into the chair across from Wright's desk without invitation. "We're investigating the deaths of two individuals who participated in one of your studies. Rebecca Palmer and Michael Sullivan."

Wright's expression shifted from confusion to shock, then to genuine distress. "Dead? Both of them? That's... that's terrible.” Addison noted that he did indeed look both shocked and saddened. “When…when did this happen?"

"Palmer was found this morning. Sullivan three days ago," Javier said, remaining standing, his posture deliberately imposing. "Both had unusual antibody profiles that led them to your study. Both died under similar circumstances."

"My God." Wright's hand trembled slightly as he replaced his glasses. "They were part of my research on natural immunity factors, yes. But I don't see how their participation could possibly be connected to their deaths."

“Right now, it’s the only solid link we have between them,” Rachel explained.

"What exactly are you studying, Doctor?" Javier asked.

Wright hesitated, then gestured toward the whiteboard on the other side of the room. It was partially filled with scribbled notes, a few things that looked like equations of some kind, and other bits and pieces. "Rare antibody configurations that provide enhanced resistance to certain viral infections. Palmer and Sullivan—along with twelve other participants—demonstrated natural immunity that could revolutionize our approach to viral treatments."

"And what makes their blood so special?" Addison pressed.

"Their antibodies exhibit unusual binding properties," Wright explained, switching into lecture mode. "Most people's immune systems produce standard antibodies against specific pathogens. But these individuals produce what we call 'broadly neutralizing antibodies' that can target multiple variants of a virus simultaneously. It's incredibly rare—maybe one in fifty thousand people. We've been mapping the genetic markers that enable this response."

"Who has access to your research data?" Javier asked. "Specifically, patient identities and their blood profiles?"

Wright frowned. He opened his mouth to answer, but he hesitated…something Rachel took immediate notice of. "The study team and a few lab technicians. All patient information is coded for privacy, of course. But—" He broke off, realization dawning. "You don't think someone from my team is involved, do you?"

"We're exploring all possibilities," Addison said neutrally. "We'll need a complete list of everyone with access to participant information, as well as any equipment that might be missing from your lab. Maybe even former employees or contractors as well.”

"Equipment?" Wright's confusion appeared genuine. "What kind of equipment?"

"Phlebotomy pumps. Dialysis machines. Anything that could be used for large-scale blood collection," she replied, watching his reaction carefully.

The color drained from Wright's face. "You don't mean... They were exsanguinated?"

"Complete exsanguination,” Addison corrected. “No visible wounds except perfect needle insertions. Sedated with midazolam from what we can tell. Positioned with clinical precision. Someone took every drop of blood from their bodies while they were still alive. Or, rather, they kept them alive during the process until they’d lost too much blood."

Wright's hand flew to his mouth. He looked like he might get sick at any moment. "That's... that's monstrous."

"It's also highly skilled," Javier noted. "The kind of precision that comes from years of medical practice."

“What about former employees?” Addison asked, noting that he had sidestepped that altogether.

He hesitated again and, just for a moment, seemed irritated that she’d brought it up. “That could take some time. Especially if you’re wanting the names of people working under contractors as well.”

“It could be very important,” Addison said.

“I’ll see what I can do and…you know…” Wright said with a slight tremor to his voice. “Perhaps there is something I should show you.” He moved to a filing cabinet and pulled out a folder, his hands still unsteady. "The fact is, I've been receiving threats recently. Someone seems to believe I'm 'wasting the blood,' as they put it." He extracted a printed email and handed it to Addison. "This came last week. I thought it was just another crank—we get them occasionally in this sort of research. Religious zealots mostly. People who misunderstand what we do."

Addison scanned the email. The language was clinical but disturbing as she read it out loud: "Your protocols waste precious immunity factors. The blood should be fully utilized, not sampled and discarded. You're squandering miracle cures on pointless studies."

"Did you report this?" Javier asked, looking over Addison's shoulder at the email.

Wright grimaced. "Hospital security has a copy. But honestly, in medical research, we're used to criticism from those who don't understand scientific methodology. I never imagined someone would actually..." He trailed off, unable to complete the thought as he shook his head emphatically. "No one on my team would do something like this. We're scientists, for God's sake. We're trying to save lives, not take them."

"The other twelve participants," Addison redirected. "We need their information immediately. Their lives may be in danger."

Wright nodded, already reaching for his computer. "Of course. I'll pull the files now. But I should tell you—three of the original participants have died of natural causes since the study began. The antibody configuration we're researching appears most frequently in individuals with certain underlying conditions. Some were quite elderly when the study started. And as I’m sure you know…if it comes down to needing medical records specifically, it will get tricky."

“Yes, I’m well aware,” Addison said. “For now, just their basic information for your studies will do.”

Addison exchanged a glance with Javier. Nine potential victims are still out there. The killer could be working through the list methodically, harvesting what they believed to be precious blood. But this participant list might just help them to close the case much faster than they’d dared to hope. And given the grisly yet methodical nature of this killer, Addison was willing to cling to any hope that came their way.

CHAPTER FIVE

Addison hated waiting. She'd never been good at it, from childhood straight through to adulthood, and even less so when it involved the lives of others. Right now, nine potential victims were out there—sitting in their living rooms, working at their jobs, walking their dogs, or doing the million mundane things that normal people did when they weren't aware they'd been marked for death.

She was currently standing outside of the hospital, phone clutches to her ear, speaking to Lieutenant Robinson of Seattle PD. She'd worked with him on a few occasions before, and though he was a very dependable man, he could also be very pig-headed…like right now.

"It's nearly impossible to get this many patrol units on such short notice," he grumbled. “By the end of the day, maybe. But within the hour…sorry, Shine. It just won’t happen.”

Addison knew she could make a call to SAIC Loomis and sic her on Robinson. It would work, but in the long run, it wouldn't save that much time. She swallowed down the very large sigh that wanted to come out, and said, "Then we prioritize." She looked to the print-out Dr. Wright had given her—most notably to the three names he had circled in pen. "We start with the ones whose antibody profiles most closely match our victims."

"And how exactly are we supposed to determine that?" Robinson asked.

"Dr. Wright highlighted the three participants with the strongest antibody responses. We start with them."

"Okay. That I can work with." At this, Addison turned to Javier, standing by one of the benches in front of the hospital beside her. She gave him a nod, and he got to work, already knowing what he needed to do based on what he'd heard. "You got the addresses?" Robinson asked.

“Agent Esposito is about to send them over to you right now.”

"Fine. I'll dispatch units to these three locations immediately. But I can't guarantee round-the-clock protection for all nine potential victims. I can certainly keep you posted as units are freed up, though."

“Thanks. And just let them know they can’t be alone after dark. Lock all windows and doors. Report anyone suspicious, especially anyone in medical attire. And if you or your men need anything or see anything suspicious, let me know right away. Thanks, Lieutenant.”

She ended the call and let out a deep breath. She'd just taken a big step but it made her uneasy to not be in control of it. She supposed that she and Javier would end up helping to contact these people soon enough, but for now, they still had other moving parts they needed to analyze.

"You think our guy's going to make another move this soon?" Javier asked as they looked to the right, across a small entrance to the ER. There, a small flower garden had been cultivated, as if wanting everyone to get one last glimpse at something nice before heading inside.

"Two victims in three days? Absolutely." Addison gulped from a cup of coffee she’d grabbed inside—her fourth of the day. The liquid was now stone cold, but she drank it anyway, grimacing at the bitter taste. "This isn't someone who's going to suddenly stop. They're on a mission."

"Well, hopefully we—," Javier started to say but was interrupted by the ringing of his phone. He grabbed it and looked to the number. "Not sure who this is," he said. But, as they had both learned, it was never wise to ignore an unfamiliar number while in the middle of a case. Especially not one that was moving this fast. When he answered it, he placed the phone in speaker mode and stepped closer to her.

“This is Special Agent Esposito,” he answered.

"Agent Esposito, this is Mark Davies from the field office tech department. I’ve been spearheading the effort on the security footage from Palmer's building…and I think we’ve got something you need to see.”

"Are you at the apartment building or the field office?"

“Field office.”

Javier looked to Addison, a shared spark of excitement spreading between them. A list of all the potential targets and now a hit on the security footage? This case was coming along nicely.

"We'll be there in fifteen minutes."

They hurried to their usual sedan and Javier quickly weaved them out of the hospital parking lots, back out onto the busy streets of Seattle just before a good deal of the city would be out enjoying a lunch break. As Javier drove, Addison once again found herself looking back through the case notes on both Sullivan and Palmer. The files on Palmer had been updated, but it was all information she already knew, most of which had been gained at the coroner’s office.

"You know what's frustrating?" Javier asked, breaking the silence.

"Hangnails?" Addison replied, turning to face him. “Especially the ones on your big toe.”

“True…but that’s not what I meant.” He smiled, that crooked half-smile that still made her stomach do a little flip. "I was going to cook for you tonight. Had this whole Chilean sea bass thing planned."

"Well, maybe we’ll get lucky and this case will be wrapped by dinner. We do seem to be getting a good deal of progress made. But even if not…rain check?"

"Definitely." He paused at a red light, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "Though honestly, I'm starting to question our whole two-night-apart thing."

Addison raised an eyebrow. "Getting tired of me already, Esposito? You need three?"

"The opposite, actually," he said, his voice dropping slightly. "I’m getting far too accustomed to having you around. It felt weird to wake up this morning, and you weren't there." He chuckled and shook his head. “And that is about the mooshiest thing you’re very going to get out of me.”

She smiled right back at him and said, “Well, our track record at work does indicate we're more effective as a team. Maybe that would prove true everywhere else .Like…around the clock."

The light turned green, and Javier accelerated through the intersection. “Yeah…maybe,” he said, still smiling.

"Let's focus on catching this guy first," Addison said, her mind already shifting back to the case. "Then we can reconsider our... scheduling arrangements. You do need to keep in mind, though…Snape is used to being the man of the house. You and him may have to do battle."

“Your cat loves me. I think I’ll be fine.”

“Famous last words.”

The good-natured conversation helped speed along their already-hurried trip back to the field office. Once they were parked in the garage, they made a direct line to the tech offices, where Mark Davies was already waiting for them in his office. It was a small, cramped space that reminded Addison a bit of Fox Mulder's office from The X-Files…just without all of the UFO paraphernalia. Davies was a younger guy, about thirty or so, and he always looked excited to be working.

“What have you got for us?” Javier asked.

Mark waved them over behind his monitor, where he sat, staring at the screen. Addison looked to the screen and saw a close-up view of the pristine lobby of Palmer's apartment building. The time stamp in the bottom corner read 11:38 PM.

"Watch the service entrance," Davies said, pointing to the bottom of the screen. Apparently, he had the moment in question teed up perfectly for them.

A figure entered, wearing light blue medical scrubs and carrying what looked like a large duffel bag. Standard-issue surgical mask covered the lower half of their face, while a surgical cap and the brim of what appeared to be a baseball cap underneath masked the upper portion. The person moved with purpose, shoulders squared, stride confident.

"They're wearing booties over their shoes," Addison noted, leaning closer to the screen. "Standard procedure to prevent contamination in sterile environments."

"Or to avoid leaving shoe prints," Javier added.

The figure approached the security desk with what appeared to be a clipboard and spoke briefly to the night guard. Whatever they said seemed to satisfy him—he nodded and buzzed them through to the elevator bank.

"Can we enhance the image?" Addison asked. "Get a better look at their face?"

Davies shook his head. "Already tried. The hat and mask combination, plus the camera angle, makes it impossible to get anything useful. We can tell it's a man based on height and build—somewhere between five and six feet, medium build."

"What about the guard?" Javier asked. "What did this guy tell him?"

"We interviewed him half an hour ago on the phone," Davies replied. "Claims the man identified himself as a home health nurse for one of the residents on the twelfth floor—not Palmer's floor. Said he was doing a late-night check-in because the patient had called with concerning symptoms."

"And the guard just let him up? No verification?" Addison fought to keep the frustration from her voice.

"The resident in question is elderly and frequently has medical staff visiting at odd hours. The guard says he recognized the nurse's uniform and medical bag."

"But not his face," Javier muttered.

"He didn't think anything of it," Davies said. "The man had the right paperwork, knew the resident's name and apartment number."

"So our killer researched the building, knew which resident would make the most plausible cover," Addison said, thinking aloud. "He did his research. But how did he get to Palmer's floor? There should be keycard access for each level."

Davies fast-forwarded the footage. "Because he didn't go directly to Palmer's floor. Watch."

The time stamp now showed 11:42 PM. The same figure exited on the twelfth floor, then took the emergency stairs up to the penthouse level. The stairwell camera caught only a glimpse as the door opened.

"There are no cameras in the emergency stairs between floors," Davies explained. "Building code requires them at entrances and exits only." He then switched footage windows and they were looking at a small foyer. “This is right before you get to Palmer’s entrance. And as you’ll see…we lose him once he enters that foyer.”

They watched it all play out in front of them. The figure never revealed his face and didn’t move in any way that would attract more attention than his attire already did. He moved as if he’d done this many times before—like he belonged there.

"But we have him entering the building at 11:38 and leaving at..." Davies fast-forwarded again, "...2:47 AM."

Three hours and nine minutes. The timeframe fit with what Addison knew about the exsanguination process—which, admittedly wasn't much. Yes, she'd once been an ME, but exsanguination wasn't a very common occurrence. Not in anything outside of vampire novels, anyway. That three hours and nine minutes was enough time to sedate Palmer, set up the equipment, extract her blood, and clean up after himself.

"Look at the bag when he leaves," Addison pointed. "It's fuller, heavier. He's carrying it more carefully."

"Five liters of blood would add significant weight," Javier said.

The figure on screen moved deliberately, maintaining perfect posture despite the now-heavier bag. No rushing, no looking over his shoulder—the calm professionalism of someone who knew exactly what they were doing and saw no reason to panic.

"He's meticulous," Addison said. "Everything about this is planned down to the last detail."

"And he's confident," Javier added. "Look at his body language, even after the murder. No sign of stress. Walking back through the lobby like it’s any other day."

Addison studied the grainy image, trying to extract every bit of information she could. "What's that on his wrist?" she asked, pointing to a small dark spot visible when the figure adjusted his grip on the bag.

Davies zoomed in, the image blurring further. "Could be a watch or medical bracelet. Too pixelated to tell for sure."

Addison nodded slowly. "Run facial recognition on every medical professional in the greater Seattle area. I know we don't have much to go on, but cross-reference with height and build parameters."

"That's thousands of people," Davies protested. “We did already think of that.”

"Then prioritize hematologists, phlebotomists, dialysis techs—anyone with specialized blood handling training."

Davies nodded and cracked his knuckles. He knew he had quite a task ahead of him—one that required a lot of waiting and a lot of patience. But he still looked thrilled to have been tasked with the job.

“I’ll get on it.”

“And snap a picture of this,” she said, taking out Dr. Wright’s list. “If, by any chance, any of these names come up in any way during the process, let us know.”

Davies did as Addison asked, using his phone to take a picture of the remaining patients from the list.

As they left the tech room, the sun cast long shadows through the office windows. "Nine potential victims," Javier said quietly as they walked to their desks. "We can't protect all of them."

"We're missing something," Addison replied, rubbing her temples. The caffeine headache was setting in, combining with the stress to form a dull throb behind her eyes. "This isn't random. It's not just about having the right blood type or antibody profile. I’ll call Robinson in a minute, see how that patrol is doing...see if we can help. Right now, that list is your best bet."

"And then what?"

"I don't know yet. But our killer is selecting these victims for a specific reason. If we can figure out the pattern, we can get ahead of him.

As they walked back out into the afternoon, Addison pulled to mind the image of the masked figure in scrubs. Something about the killer's posture, the clinical precision of his movements, nagged at her. This wasn't just medical knowledge—it was a specific kind of expertise that came from years of handling blood, understanding its properties, respecting its value.

The killer wasn't just taking lives. He was harvesting something he considered precious.

And Addison feared he was far from finished.

CHAPTER SIX

The man worked as if he were the only person alive, the only person on the planet drawing air into his lungs. The sharp metallic tang of blood hung in the air despite the ventilation system's steady hum. Gloved hands worked in perfect silence, transferring Rebecca Palmer's blood from collection bags into sterile vials. The home laboratory, set up in what had once been a spare bedroom, was better equipped than many hospital facilities—the result of years of discreet acquisitions and a few carefully forged purchase orders.

Behind him, the centrifuge whirred softly, separating plasma from blood cells. Each component had its purpose, its potential value. Nothing would be wasted. Not a single drop.

He paused, rolling his shoulders to release the tension that had been building. Forty-eight hours with minimal sleep was taking its toll, but he couldn't stop now. Time was running out—for his subjects, yes, but more importantly, for himself.

The timer beeped. He removed the last batch of vials from the centrifuge and arranged them in the specialized rack he'd designed. Each was meticulously labeled: Palmer, R. - 04/22 - Sample A through F, with subsets for plasma, platelets, and red cells.

Next to Palmer's samples sat the previous set: Sullivan, M. - 04/19 - Sample A through F. Those vials had already disappointed him. Now Palmer's would tell him if his theory was correct.

He moved to his laptop, where results from the preliminary tests were already populating the screen. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the data, blood cell counts, antibody profiles, coagulation rates—all slightly different from what he'd expected.

"No," he whispered, scrolling through the numbers again. "This can't be right."

He ran his fingers through his thinning hair, dislodging the surgical cap he'd forgotten to remove. The tremor in his right hand was more pronounced today, another sign that his condition was progressing faster than he'd calculated. He’d tried to blame it on a lack of sleep ever since he’d truly gone deep into his work, but he knew the darker truth.

Standing, he moved to the small bathroom adjoining his lab. The man who stared back from the mirror looked haggard—dark circles under bloodshot eyes, skin with the faintly yellowish tinge that had first alerted him something was wrong. He rolled up his sleeve, examining the bruises that bloomed across his forearm—the latest bleeding episodes, taking longer to heal each time.

Three months ago, he'd first noticed the symptoms. With twenty years of medical experience, he'd recognized the signs immediately. The increasingly frequent nosebleeds. The unexplained bruising. The persistent fatigue that no amount of rest seemed to alleviate.

Blood workups had confirmed his suspicions: his platelet count was dropping, his clotting factors behaving erratically. The formal diagnosis would have been some variant of idiopathic thrombocytopenic purpura—perhaps evolving into something more complex. But he knew better than to trust conventional medicine with something this important. They would insist on standard protocols, experimental treatments that took precious time he didn't have.

He'd spent weeks researching alternative approaches, combing through obscure medical journals and trial data that had never been published. That's when he'd stumbled upon Wright's research—hidden in plain sight, a revolutionary approach to blood disorders that the fool himself didn't even fully understand.

Returning to his makeshift lab, he picked up one of Palmer's vials, holding it to the light. The rich crimson liquid caught the fluorescent glare, almost shimmering.

"Not right," he muttered, placing it back in the rack.

The preliminary tests confirmed what he'd feared: Palmer's blood, like Sullivan's before her, didn't contain the specific antibody configuration he needed. Their profiles had appeared promising in Wright's database, but something was missing—some crucial factor that Wright's tests hadn't captured.

He pulled out his notebook, flipping through pages of handwritten notes until he found what he was looking for. The antibody profile he'd identified as potentially curative had specific markers, subtle differences that might not be obvious in standard testing.

He'd been so sure about Sullivan and Palmer. Their records had indicated the highest probability of compatibility based on Wright's research. But the blood he'd harvested, while valuable in its own right, lacked the precise properties he needed.

His hands shook as he pulled up the database he'd copied from Wright's system. Nine participants remaining. Three more had died naturally during the study period. He needed to be more selective this time, more precise in his targeting. Every collection attempt increased his risk of discovery.

The tremor in his hand worsened, causing him to knock over an empty vial. It rolled across the counter and shattered on the floor.

"Damn it!" He slammed his fist down, pain shooting up his arm from the impact.

Breathe. Control. Focus. He couldn't afford to lose his composure now.

He cleaned up the broken glass, meticulous as always, then returned to his research. The answer had to be in the data, some correlation he'd overlooked.

He pulled up Wright's original study protocols, scanning for details about how participants had been evaluated. Most had been referred through standard channels—routine blood work that had flagged unusual antibody configurations, leading to recruitment for the study.

But one line caught his attention: "Subject 7 demonstrated remarkable immunological response following experimental therapy."

Experimental therapy? That wasn't in the main database.

He dug deeper, searching through Wright's supplementary notes. There it was—buried in an appendix, easy to overlook. Subject 7 had undergone a specialized treatment protocol before joining the study. Their antibody profile hadn't been naturally occurring but had developed in response to Wright's intervention.

Of course, he thought, a smile spreading across his face. It's not about finding the right donor—it's about creating one.

He pulled up Subject 7's complete profile. Daniel Martinez, thirty-eight, admitted with a severe autoimmune disorder affecting blood cell production. Wright had administered a novel therapy—his own proprietary protocol—which had not only addressed her condition but had triggered the development of the unique antibody configuration he was seeking.

Martinez wasn't just another study participant. He was Wright's success story—living proof that his approach worked.

His pulse quickened as understanding dawned. Sullivan and Palmer had been wastes of time—their blood valuable in general terms but useless for his specific needs. It was Martinez he should have targeted from the beginning. Had he been so wrapped up in his work that he’d missed such an obvious clue?

But he still needed more information. Wright's notes indicated ongoing monitoring, regular blood work to track the stability of Martinez's recovery. Those follow-up studies would contain the detailed protocols he needed—the exact method Wright had used to induce the antibody response.

He checked the time: 4:37 PM. Wright often worked late, especially when he was deep into research. The hematology lab would be quiet in about three hours, minimal staff, reduced security.

Decision made, he began packing his medical bag with practiced efficiency. He wouldn't make the same mistake again. No more wasting time on the wrong subjects. No more elaborate collection processes.

What he needed wasn't in their blood—it was in Wright's research. In all of his research. And once he had that, he'd know exactly how to save himself.

He took one final look at the vials of Palmer's blood, carefully stored in the specialized refrigeration unit. Not what he needed, but still too valuable to discard. Everything had a purpose in his carefully ordered world.

His right hand trembled as he pulled on his jacket, the tremor now extending up his arm. Another symptom of deterioration. His time was running out faster than he'd calculated.

But tonight, he would get what he needed. And then, finally, he would be whole again.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Addison leaned back in the passenger seat, doing what she could to not feel defeated. Beside her, Javier pulled the car out of their parking spot, pulling away from their second interview. It had been a fifty-one-year-old woman who had been one of Dr. Wright’s subjects a year ago. She was in perfectly fine health, working as a social media manager out of her townhouse. Like the first interview they’d conducted less than an hour ago, nothing fruitful had come from it. She simply hoped that Robinson and his team were having more luck. Addison’s lower back ached, but her mind was still sharp, cycling through every fragment of information they'd gathered from Dr. Wright's study participants.

“Tell me this isn’t a massive waste of time, Javi,” she said.

"This is not a massive waste of time," he said. “We’re knocking names off of that list, making a daunting task a little less daunting. If you like, we can go look over the shoulders of the guys in tech and watch them cycle through facial recognition data from that security footage.”

“Ugh. No thank you,” Addison muttered, as Javier turned out of the parking lot and brought up directions to the next name on the list.

They'd spent the entire afternoon tracking down participants from Wright's study—at least, the ones Seattle PD hadn't already placed under protection. The ones who'd answered their doors had all displayed identical reactions once they realized what had happened to Palmer and Sullivan: pale faces, trembling hands, rapid-fire questions about security measures. And not one of them had anything remotely useful to offer. Every single one of them, absolutely terrified, and not a single useful piece of information. No strange visitors, no unusual phone calls, no one in scrubs lurking around their homes.

"Honestly, though, what did you expect?" Javier asked. "These people didn't even know they were potential targets until we showed up on their doorsteps."

"I know," she conceded. "But patterns lead to killers. Without patterns, we're just fumbling around in the dark. And at least the PD is starting to make strides.”

She nodded. The last check in from Robinson—just half an hour ago—indicated that the three people who were considered high priority had all been located and accounted for. This was, of course, good news. But Addison knew that something like this would not sidetrack a killer. If there was a list of names, they’d redirect and start from the bottom. She’d seen this sort of thing before…as sad as it seemed.

"So far," she said. The words felt hollow. They both knew protection details weren't infallible. Their killer had proven adept at getting past locked doors and security systems. If he wanted to reach one of Wright's study participants badly enough, a patrol car might just be a minor inconvenience.

Addison's phone buzzed in her pocket. She grabbed it and saw that it was coming from the field office. She answered it, placing it on speaker. “This is Agent Shine.”

“Shine…it’s Mark Davies. I wanted to fill you in, let you know that I’ve got facial recognition still running, but we’re about halfway through cross-referencing medical professionals against the height and build parameters."

"Anything promising?"

"Not yet. Too many matches at this stage."

"Then why are you calling?" she asked. She'd meant to inject some humor and sarcasm into the comment, but even to her ears, she failed.

“To let you know not to hold your breath. This one is going to take a while. You saw the footage. The guy didn’t exactly give us much to go on.”

“Thanks, Davies. I’ll officially stop holding my breath.”

Addison ended the call as Javier guided them to their next stop. The weight of nine potential victims pressed heavily on her shoulders. They needed to move faster. They needed a break in the case.

The silence in the car stretched between them as they navigated through afternoon traffic. Addison's mind kept circling back to the precision of the murders, the clinical methodology, the complete absence of blood. "You know what this reminds me of?" she said suddenly.

"What's that?"

"I Am Legend. The original novel, not those watered-down movie adaptations."

Javier raised an eyebrow. "The vampire apocalypse book?"

"Richard Matheson's masterpiece," Addison corrected. "But yes. There's a scene where the protagonist is studying the vampire infection, trying to understand how it works biologically. He discovers that the infected are driven to consume blood not because of some supernatural curse, but because of a bacterial infection that creates a specific need for fresh blood cells."

"You're comparing our killer to a vampire?" Javier asked, clearly amused.

"They’re being drained of blood. Of course I am. I'm just saying our killer might have a similar biological imperative. The ritualistic nature of these murders, the careful extraction of every drop of blood—it's not just about killing. It's about need." She glanced at him. "The threats to Wright complained about 'wasting the blood.' That suggests our killer believes this blood has value beyond the ordinary."

"Medical value," Javier mused. "The antibody profiles."

"Exactly." Addison changed lanes to pass a slow-moving truck. "Wright's research focuses on rare antibody configurations that provide enhanced resistance to certain pathogens. Remember that the threatening notes Wright were getting referred to so-called miracle cures…"

"So he's killing people to harvest their antibodies for self-treatment?" Javier frowned. "That's a hell of a stretch."

"Is it? People have done worse for less. And it would explain the accelerating timeline. Two victims in three days suggests urgency, desperation."

They considered all of this for a moment, the car lapsing into silence. After a few moments, Addison simply couldn’t help herself. “Look…we’re sleeping together now. Seeing each other naked a lot…being vulnerable. So I need to know…what's your take on vampires?"

"My take?" Javier looked confused by the sudden change in topic but smiled nonetheless. "Uh, I don't know. They're classic monsters? Sexy sometimes, depending on who's playing them?"

Addison rolled her eyes. "Sexy? Yeah, maybe. I guess. Though even there, they've been completely defanged. Twilight turned them into sparkly teenage heartthrobs."

"Hey now," Javier protested. "Twilight has its merits."

Addison nearly swerved in surprise. "Please tell me you're not a closet Twilight fan."

"I had an ex-girlfriend in college who was obsessed with them back in the day. I sat through all the movies." He shrugged. "They weren't that bad."

"They were an abomination to vampire mythology," Addison countered, raising her voice. "Vampires aren't supposed to be brooding high school students who sparkle in the sunlight. They're predators. Monsters. The best vampire stories use them as metaphors for real human darkness—addiction, obsession, the exploitation of the vulnerable."

"Like our killer," Javier said, bringing the conversation full circle.

"Exactly like our killer. He's not supernatural, but he's hunting specific victims for their blood, driven by some internal need or belief. I won't be surprised if we find out he has some medical condition he believes these antibodies can cure."

"But it doesn't get us any closer to identifying him,” Javier speculated.

"No," Addison agreed as the light changed. "But it gives us a clearer picture of his motivation, which might help narrow down suspects once we get Wright's list."

"You know…maybe we should look deeper into Wright's competitors and colleagues. Anyone with the medical knowledge to perform these extractions and a potential personal stake in antibody research."

"Davies is already working on that," Addison said. "Among other things. He's really become the workhorse of this case."

“So then we get a head start.”

“Well…also, did you notice that he somehow magically kept skipping around the question about former colleagues? Former employees…things like that?

“I did.”

“So maybe we look into that, too. If he won’t give us the info, we’ll dig it up.”

She pulled out her phone and dialed the direct line to the field office Records and Research department. It sure as hell beat going door to door and scaring people because a killer was on the loose and targeting others just like them. And when she brought the phone to her ear and waited for an answer, she realized that maybe their killer was more like a vampire than she'd originally thought. He was, after all, striking at night, leaving those who were hunting him to come up with clues during the day in the hopes that they could easily stop him before the sunset.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Records and Research, Gentry speaking." The gruff voice that finally answered belonged to a man who'd seen the department transition from paper files to digital archives. He was among the older workers out of the Seattle field office, and Addison had worked with him off and on over the course of several past cases.

"Bo, it's Addison Shine."

"Shine!" There was genuine warmth in his voice. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Got another impossible request that'll keep me here past dinner?"

"You know it," she said, finding comfort in their familiar banter. Bo Gentry was a walking encyclopedia of case files and personnel histories. If there was dirt to be found, Bo would unearth it with the precision of an archaeologist at a dig site. "I need everything you can get me on everyone who has worked with Dr. Thomas Wright at the Haematology Department at Seattle General.”

"How deep am I digging?" Bo asked.

"All the way to China," Addison replied. "Professional backgrounds, employment histories, any disciplinary actions or complaints. And I need it—"

"Don't tell me—yesterday?"

"You read my mind."

"It’s a talent. Give me thirty minutes. I'll call you back."

Addison hung up and turned to Javier, who was still making his way through traffic. According to his phone screen, they were now just twelve minutes away from their next person from Dr. Wright’s list—a gentleman named Adam Detweiler. Addison had to once again remind herself to remain calm, to just be patient and let the case present itself as its own natural pace. It was, of course, difficult for her; every minute spent chasing leads was another minute the killer could be selecting his next target—if they hadn’t already been selected.

"So we're pivoting to former employees," Javier said, not looking up from his phone. "What made you zero in on that?"

"Like I said, he seemed to all-too-conveniently dance around the question. No details, no elaboration. Usually when people avoid details, there's a reason."

"Gut feeling?"

"Pattern recognition," she corrected. "In my experience, when someone downplays something like that, there's usually history there. Something uncomfortable."

“Or he could have just been thrown off and still recovering from learning why we were there in the first place. He seemed really shaken up.”

“Yeah, he did. But one way or the other, Gentry might help clear it all up.”

The silence settled between them, comfortable yet charged with anticipation. Addison watched pedestrians pass by the car, each wrapped in their own private universe, unaware of the methodical killer tracking his next victim somewhere in the city. She felt slightly guilty in hoping that Gentry would call back with relevant information before they reached the Detweiler residence.

“Hey, would it make up for the Twilight defense if I revealed that I have, in fact, read the original Dracula? The Bran Stoker one?”

“Maybe.” She chuffed and said. "I didn't realize you were a literary scholar.”

"There's a lot you don't know about me." He grinned. "I went through a serious horror phase in college. Read everything from Lovecraft to King."

"Next, you'll tell me you've read Sheridan Le Fanu's Carmilla."

"Nineteenth-century lesbian vampire novella? Of course. It predated 'Dracula' by twenty-six years."

Addison raised an eyebrow, genuinely impressed. "I’m so hot for you right now."

Javier winked at her. "But back to our case—you think our killer believes these specific antibodies can cure whatever condition he has? That he's essentially self-medicating with stolen blood?"

"It would explain the precision, the methodology. This isn't rage or sexual sadism. It's calculated, clinical—almost like self-administered treatment."

Before Javier could respond, Addison’s phone rang. She saw the field office extension on her caller display and answered it at once. “What have you got for me, Bo?”

"A good amount, as a matter of fact," Bo said without preamble. "You're gonna want to hear this. First of all, I did get the names of a few grad students that were involved for a bit, but they're out of the loop. One moved to Thailand three years ago, and another is running a veterinary practice in New Mexico. But, I do have the name of a guy listed as a researcher under Wright. Carl Winters, fifty-one, master's in biology from Stanford. Worked with Wright for three years on various blood disorder research projects. But here's where it gets interesting—he was fired a little less than a year ago."

"Fired?" Addison straightened in her seat. "What for?"

"Conducting unauthorized experiments with patient blood samples."

She locked eyes with Javier, who leaned closer to hear. "Describe unauthorized.”

"According to the disciplinary report, he was taking samples meant for Dr. Wright's research and running his own tests after hours. When confronted, he claimed he was testing theories about antibody applications in treating genetic disorders. The report uses terms like 'unethical,' 'unauthorized,' and my personal favorite, 'potentially dangerous methodologies.'"

"Did the report specify what disorders he was researching?"

"Not in detail, but there's mention of 'hereditary hemolytic disorders.' That's blood stuff, right?"

"Yeah," Addison confirmed. "That’s blood stuff. It means disorders where red blood cells are destroyed prematurely. Did he face criminal charges?"

"Nope. Seattle General kept it internal. Fired him, but no charges filed. He violated hospital protocol, not technically any laws. The samples were already taken with patient consent for research purposes—he just used them for unauthorized experiments."

For just a moment, Addison wondered why Wright would have kept this from them. But then again, if he had been working with a man charged with these kinds of things, he probably wanted to keep it all hidden. It made sense, but it irritated her. Now, at least, she knew why he’d been hesitating and side-stepping her questions.

"Any indication of why he was so interested in these particular experiments?"

"Nothing specific in the file," Bo replied. "But I did find something else. After getting fired, he tried to publish a paper independently about—hold on, let me get the exact title—'Transgenic Applications of Broadly Neutralizing Antibodies in Treatment-Resistant Blood Disorders.' It was rejected by every major medical journal for insufficient evidence and ethical concerns."

"Transgenic applications," Addison repeated, a chill running down her spine. "He wanted to transfer antibodies from one person to another."

"That tracks with the unauthorized experiments," Bo continued. "According to Wright's complaint, Winters was attempting to synthesize the antibodies for transferable treatment protocols without proper testing frameworks."

“So Wright actually made formal, public complaints against him?”

“From what I see here, there’s at least one. But then the trail goes quiet.”

“Do you have a current address for Mr. Winters?"

"I do. And I’ll text it to you when we hang up. Looks like he's renting a house in Ravenna, not far from the university district. Hasn't held a formal research position since Seattle General. Unemployment for six months, then sporadic income—looks like consulting gigs, but nothing steady."

"What about finances?" Addison asked, her mind working through the implications.

"Interesting you should ask," Bo said, the sound of typing audible in the background. "His accounts show large cash withdrawals over the past month. Five thousand here, three thousand there. Not exactly normal behavior for someone without steady income."

"Medical equipment isn't cheap," Addison murmured.

"What's that?"

"Just thinking out loud. Bo, you're a saint. Send me everything you've got."

"Will do,” he said, and hung up.

Addison turned to Javier, already scrolling to the files Bo had sent to her phone. "Winters was fired for unauthorized experiments with the exact blood samples we're investigating," she said. "And Wright conveniently failed to mention this even when I specifically asked about past employees. I guess it makes sense, though, if he wants to try to distance himself from a man with those sorts of skeletons in his closet."

"Maybe he didn't think it was relevant," Javier suggested.

"Or maybe he was protecting a former colleague. Either way, it's suspicious."

She opened one of the files from Bo—Winters' original research proposal that had been rejected by the university's ethics committee before he'd even started working with Wright. The language was dense with medical terminology, but certain phrases jumped out at her:

"...potential applications in treating congenital hemoglobinopathies through targeted immune response modification..."

"...theoretical framework for transgenic antibody therapies in refractory cases..."

"What kind of equipment would he need?" Javier asked. "For the extractions, I mean."

Addison thought for a moment. "Based on the crime scenes, our killer is using professional-grade phlebotomy equipment. Vacuum extraction systems, medical-grade tubing, centrifuge for processing. Not the kind of stuff you can pick up at Walgreens, but also not impossible to acquire if you know where to look."

"Or if you used to work in a hospital," Javier added.

They shared a weighted look. The puzzle pieces were aligning with disturbing clarity.

"Those cash withdrawals," Addison said. "He could be using that money to acquire equipment for blood extraction. Wright's complaint mentions that Winters had always been particularly interested in the broadly neutralizing antibodies—maybe those could be the exact same antibodies our victims had."

"It fits," Javier agreed. "Medical knowledge, connection to the study participants, personal interest in the antibodies, and now unexplained cash movements."

Addison felt the familiar electric tension that came with a breakthrough—the moment when disparate threads of evidence suddenly wove together into a recognizable pattern. While there was no hard evidence, it sure did seem as if Winters was lining up to perfectly fit their profile.

Her phone buzzed again as an address for Carl Winters came through from Bo, as promised. She copied the address into her GPS, and the map came up right away. "Alright…I've got Winter's address up. I say we head there next."

“Agreed,” Javier said. “You mind letting Robinson know we’re off the list duty?”

“Not at all.”

Javier nodded, glancing into the sideview mirror and giving his signal as he prepared to course-correct. "To Ravenna then?"

"To Ravenna," Addison confirmed.

For the second time, she had to remind herself that there was no hard evidence against Winters and that it was far too early to start getting excited about potentially ending this case. But whether Winters was their killer or just another piece of the puzzle, her gut—which was usually never wrong—insisted that they were on the right track.

She glanced to her watch and saw that there was only another three and a half hours of daylight. And in realizing that, she also had to remind herself that no, they were not chasing down an actual vampire. But given the nature of these deaths, she had no doubt the killer might turn out to be just as monstrous.

CHAPTER NINE

The split-level ranch sat back from the street, partially hidden behind a row of unkempt shrubs that had long ago surrendered to nature's whims. Carl Winters' house might have been charming once, with its butter-yellow siding and white shutters, but the structure seemed to be widely neglected and had, from the looks of it, become the neighborhood eyesore. The front lawn had gone feral, dandelions and crabgrass claiming victory over whatever grass had once grown there.

"Not exactly what I was expecting out of someone of Winter’s caliber," Javier said as they approached the cracked concrete walkway. A pile of soggy newspapers sat near the front door, their plastic wrappers bleached by the sun.

Addison surveyed the property, noting the drawn blinds and, once again, the wild state of the yard.

Javier climbed the three steps to the front porch, which creaked ominously under his weight. He tried the doorbell, unsurprised when no chime sounded from within. His knuckles rapped against the door. When there was no answer after ten seconds, he knocked again and yelled: "Carl Winters! FBI!"

No response came from inside the house. Just the distant sound of a neighbor's lawnmower and birds arguing in the overgrown maple tree that dominated the front yard.

Javier cupped his hands against the grimy window beside the door, peering through a gap in the blinds. "I mean, it looks lived in…just like no one has taken care of the place for weeks.”

"Or he wants it to look that way," Addison said, already moving along the perimeter of the house. Her instincts told her Winters was their guy—or at least someone they needed to talk to immediately. "Let's check around back."

The side yard was even more neglected than the front, with broken garden tools half-buried in weeds and an abandoned wheelbarrow collecting rainwater. As they rounded the corner to the backyard, Addison noted the stark contrast between the overgrown exterior and the new padlock securing the cellar doors.

"Someone's definitely been here recently," she murmured, pointing to a narrow path trampled through the tall grass. It led from the back door to a detached garage with a sagging roof.

Javier tested the back door, finding it locked. "We could get a warrant."

"Which takes time we don't have," Addison countered, already moving along the house's perimeter. Her fingers trailed along the aluminum siding, testing windows as she went. "If Winters is our killer or even simply has information we need, we have to get in. Besides…look at the state of the place. We could say it looked to be abandoned.”

Javier smirked and said, “Did I ever tell you I like your devious side?”

She stopped at a ground-floor window where the frame had warped, leaving a visible gap at one corner. "Bingo."

Pushing gently, she found the window gave slightly but wouldn't open completely. "Give me a hand with this?"

Javier positioned himself beside her, fingers finding purchase beneath the warped frame. "On three. One, two—"

With a groan of protest, the window slid up about ten inches—just enough for Addison to slip through. She kept her gun holstered but within easy reach, as she contorted herself through the opening.

"I'll see if I can get to the back door from inside," she called back to Javier, who was already removing his jacket to follow her through the narrow space. “No offense, but I don’t see you squeezing in through here.”

The room she'd entered appeared to be some kind of home office, though it looked more like a tornado had hit a medical supply closet. Papers were strewn across every surface, some pinned to walls with thumbtacks, others stacked in precarious towers on the desk and floor. Medical journals lay open, passages highlighted in neon colors, margins filled with cramped handwriting.

The smell hit her next—antiseptic overlaying something musty and organic. The distinctive scent of a space where scientific work had taken place outside proper containment protocols. The darker side of her mind pictures abandoned hospitals with the lingering scents of days gone by.

She made her way through the chaos to the hallway and unlocked the back door for Javier. "You need to see this," she said as he stepped inside.

Together, they moved through the house, documenting what they found with their phones. The kitchen sink overflowed with dirty dishes, yet the refrigerator hummed with life, stocked with fresh groceries and takeout containers—though by the smell of it, a lot of what was inside had started to go sour.

In the living room, they found more evidence of recent activity: a small toolbox sat open on the coffee table, containing only a few screwdrivers and bolts. Next to it lay an instruction manual for what appeared to be some sort of mechanical lock, its pages dog-eared and annotated.

Addison moved toward a hallway that presumably led to bedrooms, but stopped when she noticed a door tucked beneath the staircase. Unlike the rest of the house, this door featured a new, heavy-duty deadbolt.

"Basement?" she guessed.

Javier nodded, testing the handle. The lock clicked open easily. "Unlocked. Either he's careless or—"

"Or he's down there right now," Addison finished in a whisper, her hand moving to her holstered weapon.

The basement stairs descended into darkness, broken only by a faint blue glow emanating from below. Addison took point, moving down silently, Javier close behind. The antiseptic smell grew stronger with each step, mingling with something else—something that reminded her of wet fur.

At the bottom of the stairs, Addison felt along the wall until her fingers found a light switch. She flipped it, blinking as fluorescent lights flickered to life, revealing what Carl Winters had been hiding.

The basement had been converted into a makeshift laboratory. Stainless steel tables lined one wall, their surfaces cluttered with medical equipment: centrifuges, microscopes, test tube racks filled with vials of blood in various stages of separation. An IV stand stood in one corner, empty bags dangling from its hooks like deflated balloons, their tubing stained rust-brown with dried blood. The stand seemed rather old, as if it had been plucked from obscurity from an old hospital storage room.

"Jesus," Javier whispered, examining a row of labeled vials inside a mini-refrigerator. Each bore a date and cryptic identifiers—not names, but codes.

But it was the far side of the basement that made Addison's stomach twist. Stacked against the wall were cages—at least a dozen, varying in size from small wire mesh boxes to dog kennels. And inside them...

"He's experimenting on animals," she said, her voice tight with controlled anger.

Three dogs peered back at her from separate cages—a scruffy terrier mix, a beagle with sorrowful eyes, and what looked like a young Labrador, its black coat dull and patchy. In smaller cages, a half-dozen cats huddled on blankets, their collars still attached, suggesting they were someone's missing pets rather than strays. And in wire cages stacked on a shelf, white mice scurried nervously, their water bottles nearly empty.

The animals were alive, but their condition spoke of neglect and repeated medical procedures. Small patches of fur had been shaved from legs and necks—places where blood could easily be drawn or IVs inserted. Some wore bandages over these sites. None appeared to have been fed recently. One of the dogs let out a small growl, a warning of sorts, but there was no real danger in it.

"Son of a bitch," Javier growled, crouching to examine the dog cages more closely. The beagle pressed its nose against the bars, its tail ticked between its legs. "This is terrible…unforgivable.”

Addison moved to a desk positioned against the opposite wall, where a laptop sat open, its screen dark. Beside it lay several hand-bound journals, their pages filled with scrawled. handwriting. She flipped one open, scanning the entries.

"He's documenting blood tests," she said, turning pages. "Transfusion reactions, antibody responses... looks like he's been testing the efficacy of different blood types in treating some kind of condition." She paused at a page filled with angry, deeply etched writing. "Listen to this: 'Conventional medicine refuses to acknowledge the healing properties of pure blood. Wright's research scratches the surface, but he's too conservative, too bound by outdated medical ethics. The animals show marked improvement after just three transfusions of selected donor blood. Human trials are a must.'"

Javier joined her at the desk, though his eyes, attention, and pity were still locked on the poor animals at the back of the basement.

Addison continued flipping through the journals, scanning more recent entries. The handwriting grew increasingly erratic, the pressure of the pen sometimes tearing through the paper. "His mental state is deteriorating. Look at this—he believes he's curing these animals of blood disorders, but his methods are all over the place. No controls, no consistent protocols. He's just... experimenting wildly, convinced he's on the verge of some breakthrough." She let out a nervous little laugh and said, "Maybe we're not dealing with a vampire after all. Maybe it's more like Doctor Frankenstein."

The last entry, dated just yesterday, chilled her: "Nothing but failures. Blood degraded too quickly, antibody responses insufficient. Direct transfusion may be necessary for full efficacy."

"Direct transfusion," Javier echoed. "He's not just collecting blood anymore—he's planning to connect himself directly to these people, right?"

"Seems that way. And if he’s willing to go to those lengths, he may be even more desperate than we thought.”

Javier nodded and started back over to the cages. “I’m freeing these animals,” he said. “I’ll call a local shelter. You mind calling for a unit to keep eyes in this hellhole while we keep working?”

“Already ahead of you,” she said, already reaching for her phone. “And I’m going to make another call to Gentry, too…see if we can get the names and numbers of Winter’s family members. Someone has to know something about this creep that will help.”

She placed the first of the two calls as she watched Javier tentatively started working on the locks on the cages. One of the dogs had started whining desperately, wetting itself in fear as Javier tried to free them. It was just another visual—another reminder—of just how deplorable the man they were searching for could be.

CHAPTER TEN

Daniel Martinez stepped through his front door at precisely 6:43 PM, the same time he arrived home nearly every weekday. He knew his life was painfully predictable, and he was fine with that. After the chaotic dissolution of his marriage two years ago, he'd come to appreciate the comfort of routine.

His modest one-story Craftsman wasn't much, but with Seattle's housing market, he considered himself lucky to have gotten it in the divorce. Megan had wanted the condo downtown. Fine by him. The settlement had been fair, if not painless. Fair, if not painless, was also a great way to describe the marriage, he supposed

He set his leather messenger bag on the bench by the door and hung his keys on the small brass hook that had been installed there since before he'd owned the place. The house creaked as he moved through it, the winter chill making the old wood contract. He flipped on lights as he went, chasing away the early evening darkness.

In the kitchen, he filled the copper kettle—another remnant from his marriage—and set it on the stove. Tea had become his evening ritual over the past few months. His doctor had suggested it might help with his insomnia. Six months of tossing and turning had finally driven him to seek help. He was denying that the trouble sleeping came from missing his wife on the other side of the bed, so he was willing to try anything. The tea hadn't fixed his sleep issues, but he'd grown to appreciate the ritual.

As the water began to heat, he moved through the house to his bedroom. The floorboards in the hallway creaked in their familiar pattern. Third board from the bathroom. Fifth board before his bedroom door. The house spoke to him, and after two years alone here, he'd learned its language.

Daniel flicked on his bedroom light and loosened his tie, dropping it on the bed. The navy blue sheets were still rumpled from this morning. He'd stopped making his bed months ago. What was the point? No one saw it but him. Now, he made it perhaps once every week.

He changed slowly, methodically hanging his suit back in the closet, placing his shoes in their designated spot. He pulled on a pair of well-worn sweatpants and a faded University of Washington t-shirt. Comfort clothes. No one to impress tonight. Or any night, really.

As he turned to leave the bedroom, his eyes caught on the silver frame sitting on his dresser. Him and Megan, both smiling, her head resting on his shoulder as they sat on a ferry crossing to Bainbridge Island. Three years ago. Nearly a year before, she'd told him she "needed something more." He still didn't know what that "more" was, only that he hadn't been it.

His thumb brushed across the surface of the frame. He'd promised himself a dozen times that he'd put it away. Box it up with the rest of the memories. But somehow, the photograph remained, the last vestige of a life that had once seemed so certain.

The distant whistle of the kettle pulled him from his thoughts. Now in comfortable clothes, he made his way back to the kitchen. There, he moved the kettle off the heat and reached for his favorite mug—a plain blue ceramic one, nothing special. He dropped in a bag of chamomile tea and poured the steaming water over it. The warm, apple-like scent of the tea rose with the steam.

"What's for dinner?" he murmured to himself, opening his pantry. The shelves stared back at him, half-empty. A few cans of soup. Some pasta. Nothing appealing. He closed the pantry and opened the refrigerator instead. Cold air washed over him as he surveyed the equally sparse contents. A carton of eggs. Some questionable lunch meat. A block of cheese with a corner starting to turn green.

Daniel sighed. Another night of delivery, then…and it would be the third time this week. When had grocery shopping become so exhausting? He vaguely remembered a time when he and Megan would make a whole evening of it—browsing the farmer's market for fresh produce, planning meals for the week. Now, it was just another chore he couldn't bring himself to face after a day of balancing other people's books.

He picked up his phone from the counter and opened the DoorDash app. The Indian place on Market Street had a special on Thursday nights. Chicken tikka masala. Naan. Maybe some samosas. The thought of spice and warmth was appealing as the winter chill settled in his bones.

His fingers hovered over the screen as he picked up his mug with his other hand. The tea was still too hot to drink, but he blew across the surface out of habit, watching the ripples disturb the golden liquid.

The first wave of dizziness hit him mid-breath. It came out of nowhere, almost like he’d been shot. It was subtle at first—a slight tilting of the kitchen, as if the house had decided to shift on its foundation. Daniel blinked, trying to clear his vision. His hand tightened on the edge of the counter. Maybe he'd stood up too quickly after looking in the refrigerator? Low blood pressure, perhaps?

He set his phone down, gripping the counter with both hands now. The dizziness didn't subside. Instead, it intensified, the kitchen swirling around him in a nauseating carousel. His stomach lurched.

"What the hell?" he muttered, his voice sounding distant to his own ears.

He took a step, thinking maybe he should sit down, but his legs wobbled beneath him. The mug slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers, crashing to the floor. Blue ceramic shards scattered across the tile, golden tea spreading like spilled sunshine.

Daniel stared at the mess, still frozen and trying to understand what was happening. He tried to remember if he'd taken anything today. Any medication that might explain this sudden vertigo. His mind felt foggy, unable to grasp at the memory.

His knees buckled. He grabbed for the kitchen table, missing by inches. His palm slapped against the cool tile as he caught himself, barely preventing his face from taking damage. The room tilted violently, ceiling and floor trading places in a sickening loop.

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. This wasn't low blood pressure or exhaustion. This felt... deliberate. Chemical. Like his body was being systematically shut down.

With effort, he rolled onto his side, reaching for his phone. It had fallen somewhere nearby, he was sure of it. His fingers scrabbled uselessly against the tile. The edges of his vision darkened, tunneling inward. Through the narrowing field, Daniel caught a glimpse of movement at the edge of the kitchen.

A figure stood in the doorway, tall and thin. He was dressed in pale blue scrubs that seemed to shimmer and distort in Daniel's failing vision. A surgical mask obscured most of the face, but the eyes above it were intent, observant. Clinical. The figure wore a cap that covered their hair, and gloves that sheathed their hands.

A doctor? An EMT? But he hadn't called anyone. Unless...had he blacked out? Was this a rescue from a call he didn’t even remember making? The confusion swam through his dulling mind like fish in murky water.

The figure approached with measured steps, unhurried. A bag was set on the kitchen table. The soft rustle of equipment being removed drifted to Daniel's ears as if underwater.

He tried to speak, to ask what was happening, but his tongue felt swollen, unresponsive. Only a weak groan escaped his lips.

The figure knelt beside him, a gloved hand reaching out to check his pulse. The touch was professional, impersonal. Daniel caught a whiff of antiseptic, the smell of clean hospitals and certain labs.

This can't be real, he thought as darkness crept further into his vision. I'm hallucinating. Having a stroke. Something.

The figure leaned closer, studying him with detached interest. In the last moments before consciousness fled entirely, Daniel saw something in those eyes above the mask. Not compassion. Not concern. Not even malice.

Just... purpose. The steady determination of someone simply doing a job.

And in the quiet of his home, as the spilled tea cooled on the kitchen floor, Daniel Martinez’s long string of predictable days came to an end.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Addison hung up the phone with Bo Gentry from Records and Research just as she and Javier made their way out of the not-quite abandoned home of Carl Winters. She tucked her phone into her pocket as they made their way out into an evening that was giving way to dusk. She could tell that Javier felt mixed emotions at leaving the animals behind, even though he'd already called the nearest animal shelter to report what they'd found. It was something new she was discovering about him—unexpected but ultimately charming.

"Gentry's texting me the phone number for Winters's only living relative,” she told him as they made their way down the front steps. “A sister named Juliette who lives in Oregon. It's the only family contact he could find on file. Both parents deceased, no wife, and no other siblings."

Javier nodded, his jaw still tight with anger after what they'd discovered in the basement. "I got through to the West Seattle Animal Rescue. Someone's heading over within the hour to collect those poor animals." He glanced back at the house with undisguised contempt. "They're sending their medical team too."

"Were you able to reach Robinson about getting a unit to watch the place?" Addison asked as they reached the car.

"Yeah. He's trying to free someone up in the next hour or two. Not exactly the rapid response I was hoping for, but better than nothing." Javier leaned against the hood of their car, his normally composed demeanor visibly rattled. "Those animals in there...it’s pretty clear they’d been neglected. And there were impression in the fur around the neck of one of the dogs, like a collar had been there for a long time. It might have seen someone’s pet."

"I know." Addison's voice was tight. She'd seen plenty of crime scenes, plenty of human victims in her career, but there was something particularly disturbing about the calculated suffering Winters had inflicted on defenseless creatures. "The way he'd shaved their fur for IV access points, those makeshift bandages... he's been practicing his techniques."

Her phone buzzed with an incoming text as she took her place in the passenger seat. It was Gentry, with Juliette Winters's contact information. "We should make this call now. With Winters's sister all the way in Oregon, we need whatever lead we can get."

Addison dialed the number and put the phone on speaker so Javier could hear. The line rang three times before a woman's voice answered. She sounded slightly distracted, and maybe a bit uncertain—though not unfriendly—at answering an unfamiliar number.

"Hello?"

"Is this Juliette Winters?" Addison asked.

"Yes, who's calling?"

"Ms. Winters, my name is Special Agent Addison Shine with the FBI Seattle field office. I'm calling about your brother, Carl Winters."

A pause. "Is Carl okay? Has something happened?"

"We're working on a case where your brother's name has come up, and we need some background information," Addison said, deliberately keeping her explanation vague. "Are you somewhere you can talk for a few minutes?"

"I'm just driving home from work," Juliette said, her voice now tinged with worry. "What's this about? Is Carl in trouble?"

"We're just gathering information at this stage," Addison reassured her. "How well would you say you know your brother? Is it a close relationship?"

"I suppose we’re fairly close..." Juliette hesitated. "Though he's been a little distant ever since he lost that job last year. It really broke his heart. He loved his job."

Addison caught Javier's eye. "Do you know why he was fired?"

"Carl only told me there were some differing points of view between him and his boss," Juliette said. "He was always passionate about his research—maybe too passionate sometimes. He'd get these ideas and couldn't let them go, even when everyone else thought they were impractical."

"Has he found work elsewhere since then?" Addison pressed.

“I…wait. Are you sure he’s okay?”

Addison did her best to answer the question without really answering the question. “Like I said, right now, we’re just trying to collect information.”

Juliette seemed to think about this for a moment before answering the question. Addison wondered if she had taken the moment to contemplate whether or not her brother would be capable of crimes severe enough to attract the attention of the FBI.

"He mentioned he's been working on some solo, freelance things,” she said. “Research projects, I think. He's always been secretive about the details." Juliette paused again, and they could hear the sound of traffic in the background. "Actually, during one of our few conversations in the last couple months, he mentioned he's been volunteering lately, though he didn't say where."

Addison straightened, immediately alert. "Volunteering? Did he give you any indication what kind of volunteering?"

"No, just that it was something he found fulfilling. I was happy to hear it. I thought maybe he was finally getting out of that funk he's been in." Another pause. "Is he okay, Agent Shine? You're starting to worry me."

"We're just trying to locate him for questioning," Addison said, doing her best not to get irritated. "If you hear from him, please call this number immediately. And thank you for your time, Ms. Winters."

After ending the call, Addison turned to Javier, her mind racing with possibilities. "Volunteering. At first I was thinking hospital or medical facility, but given what we saw in that basement..."

"Those animals," Javier said, realization dawning. "You think he's getting them from somewhere? Somewhere he might be serving as a volunteer?"

"Think about it. A few looked as if they’d been taken care of in the past, but others looked like strays. What if he's volunteering at a shelter? It would give him access to animals no one would miss."

"The perfect test subjects," Javier agreed grimly. "And if he's established himself as a reliable volunteer, no one would question why he's taking animals home. He could claim he's fostering them."

Addison felt a chill despite the warm afternoon. "And once he’s perfected his techniques on animals..."

"He moves on to human subjects," Javier finished, already pulling out his phone to search for nearby animal shelters. "There's a shelter called Paws and Claws just a few miles from here. The rescue center told me about it when I was on the phone with them. They take in strays and owner surrenders."

"That's our next stop," Addison said, sliding into the passenger seat as Javier got behind the wheel. "If Winters has been volunteering there, they might be able to tell us where to find him. I know it’s a stretch, but—"

“No, it fits,” Javier interrupted. “I don’t think it’s as much of a stretch as you think.”

Javier pulled up directions to Paws and Claws and pulled the car away from the curb in front of Winters’ house. As he drove, Addison stared out the window, her mind piecing together the puzzle of Carl Winters. The journals they'd found in his basement painted a disturbing picture: a man driven by obsession, convinced he'd discovered some miraculous property in "pure" blood that could cure genetic disorders. His experiments on animals were just the first step, a testing ground for theories too radical—or too dangerous—for conventional medical research.

"The entries in those journals," she said, breaking the silence. "He went from methodical documentation to almost manic scribbling. The deterioration in his handwriting alone shows his mental state unraveling."

"You think he's having some kind of breakdown?" Javier asked, navigating through traffic.

"Or a dangerous fixation that's consuming him," Addison replied. "His sister said he was 'passionate' about his research. But what we saw goes way beyond passion. Those labs, those animals—that's obsession. And his last entry mentioned 'direct transfusion' being necessary. He's escalating."

"And maybe growing more desperate," Javier finished. "If Winters believes this blood has some kind of healing property, maybe he's sick? Something that would make him willing to risk everything?"

The theory clicked into place in Addison's mind. "That would explain the urgency. If he believes he's running out of time, he might be willing to take extreme measures." She frowned, thinking of the carefully drained victims. "But why take all the blood? That goes beyond what you'd need for transfusion or even testing."

"Maybe he doesn't know exactly what he's looking for," Javier suggested. "So he's collecting as much as possible to experiment with."

They fell into silence again as the implications sank in. If Winters was their killer, and if he was operating under the delusion that his victims' blood could save him from some condition—real or imagined—then he was both desperate and dangerous. The combination made him unpredictable and, potentially, a man rapidly deteriorating into something monstrous.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Javier pulled into the gravel parking lot of Paws & Claws Animal Rescue, setting on odd scene with its bright sign in the thickening dusk. The building itself was unassuming—a squat, single-story structure with weathered blue siding and a hand-painted sign featuring cartoon-like dog and cat silhouettes. The fading daylight cast long shadows across the property, giving the cheerful paw prints stenciled on the front door an oddly ominous appearance.

"It's 6:40," Javier said, checking his watch as they stepped out of the car. "Place closes at seven, according to their website."

"Twenty minutes should be enough time to see if our guy's here," Addison replied, scanning the nearly empty parking lot. Only three other cars remained—likely belonging to staff closing up for the night.

They approached the entrance at a measured pace, not wanting to broadcast urgency but conscious of the closing time ticking away. A bell jingled softly as they pushed through the front door, announcing their arrival to the quiet lobby.

Inside, the shelter smelled of pet shampoo and disinfectant—a vast improvement over the antiseptic and neglect they'd encountered in Winters's basement. The lingering smell of wet fur and droppings were faintly behind it all despite attempts to mask it…which Addison figured was just part of every animal shelter. The walls were lined with bulletin boards covered in adoption success stories, photos of smiling families with their new pets taped alongside handwritten thank-you notes. A row of metal folding chairs stood empty along one wall, waiting for tomorrow's potential adopters.

Behind the front desk, a young man with shaggy hair and three visible piercings sat hunched over a laptop. He couldn't have been older than twenty, Addison guessed, though his posture added years to his appearance. He glanced up at the sound of the bell, his expression shifting from boredom to practiced customer service.

"Hey there," he said, straightening slightly. "Just so you know, we're closing in twenty minutes, so there's not much time if you're looking to adopt today."

Javier approached the counter, discreetly flashing his badge and ID while keeping his voice low. "FBI. Special Agent Esposito." He jerked his head toward Addison. "This is my partner, Special Agent Shine. We're looking for information on a man named Carl Winters. We understand he might volunteer here."

The young man's eyes widened. "Whoa, FBI? For real?" He dropped his voice to match Javier's conspiratorial tone. "Yeah, Carl volunteers here. Has been for like six months now. Is he in some kind of trouble?"

Addison felt a flutter of excitement in her gut. Her hunch had paid off and led them directly to Carl. "We just need to speak with him," she said, careful to keep her expression neutral. "Is he here now?"

"Actually, yeah." The young man nodded toward a hallway to their right. "He's in one of the back rooms, doing inventory on our food supplies. We rotate that job, and it's his turn this week." He leaned forward, curiosity overtaking his initial shock. "What's this about? He seems like a totally normal dude."

"We can't discuss an ongoing investigation," Javier replied smoothly. "Can you tell us exactly where to find him?"

"Sure." The clerk pointed down the hallway. "Go past the adoption rooms—you know, where we keep the super cute puppies and kittens to make people fall in love—then take a left at the water fountain. He's in the storage room at the end of that hallway. The door should be open."

"Thanks," Addison said, already moving toward the corridor. "If you could keep this conversation between us, we'd appreciate it."

The young man nodded dutifully, clearly excited to be sitting on such hot, important gossip.

As they moved away from the front desk, Addison whispered to Javier, "If this is our guy, we need to be careful. He's been experimenting on animals for months, all while keeping a normal face on for the world. Who knows what else he's capable of."

"Roger that," Javier muttered back. "Let's take it slow. If it's him, we don't want to spook him into doing something stupid."

They made their way down the main hallway, passing a series of glass-fronted rooms that housed the shelter's most adoptable animals. Unlike the sterile hospital setup or the nightmare basement laboratory they'd encountered earlier that day, these spaces were designed to be welcoming. Each enclosure featured colorful toys, soft bedding, and laminated information cards about the occupants.

In one room, a litter of orange tabby kittens tumbled over each other in an exhausting wrestling match that would inevitably end in collective napping. Next door, a pair of beagle puppies slept soundly in a small dog bed, one paw draped over the other in a picture-perfect pose. The sight momentarily distracted Addison from their mission, reminding her of the stark contrast between these well-cared-for animals and the neglected test subjects they'd found in Winters's basement. It also made her think of Snape back home and how he was a living embodiment of her search for Jane.

The thought sent a pang of sadness through her, but she dashed it right away. If Winters was indeed their bloodless killer, his methodical approach to animal testing followed by human experimentation suggested a dangerously detached mind—someone who viewed living beings as nothing more than data points in his twisted research. She had to focus.

The sounds of barking and meowing faded as they moved deeper into the shelter, away from the adoption areas designed for public viewing. The fluorescent lighting here was harsher, the walls more institutional—painted cinder block rather than the cheerful murals of the front sections. They passed a break room that smelled faintly of something that had been partially burned earlier in the day, and a laundry area where industrial washers hummed with loads of pet bedding.

"Water fountain," Javier said, nodding toward a small alcove in the wall. They turned left as instructed, finding themselves in a narrower hallway lined with storage closets and utility rooms. The atmosphere changed subtly here—cooler, quieter, with the faint smell of dry pet food and cleaning supplies.

At the end of the hallway stood a door, partially open, with light spilling out across the worn linoleum floor. As they approached, Addison could hear someone moving around inside—the rustle of paper, the squeak of a marker on a whiteboard, the soft thud of objects being placed on shelves.

They paused outside the door, exchanging a quick look to confirm they were ready. Javier gave a slight nod, and Addison pushed the door open wider.

The storage room was larger than she'd expected, lined with industrial metal shelving stacked with bags of pet food, boxes of supplies, and cleaning products. A desk had been set up at the far end, covered with inventory sheets and a laptop. Standing at one of the shelves with his back to them was a man in his early forties, wearing the shelter's blue volunteer t-shirt and khaki pants. A Seattle Mariners baseball cap was pulled low over his thinning brown hair as he made notations on a clipboard.

"Carl Winters?" Javier called, keeping his tone casual despite the tension Addison could feel radiating from him.

The man turned, revealing a narrow face with wire-rimmed glasses and a neatly trimmed goatee. His expression was neutral, almost placid, but Addison didn't miss the way his eyes darted between them, quick and assessing. There was something unsettling about that gaze—too analytical, too calculating for a simple greeting.

"Yes?" he answered, lowering the clipboard slightly. "Can I help you?"

Addison stepped forward, reaching for her credentials. "FBI," she said clearly, watching his face for a reaction. "I'm Special Agent Shine, this is Special Agent Esposito. We'd like to ask you a few questions about—"

The transformation was instantaneous. At the word "FBI," Winters's entire demeanor changed. The clipboard clattered to the floor as his body tensed like a cornered animal. In one fluid motion, his arm shot out, knocking over a stack of plastic food bins that were piled nearby, sending them crashing toward Addison and Javier.

"Stop!" Javier shouted, but Winters was already moving.

Addison lunged forward, trying to navigate around the falling bins, but Winters had planned his escape route well. He was already bolting toward a side door that Addison hadn't even noticed—an emergency exit tucked between two tall shelving units. Her foot caught on one of the fallen bins, slowing her just enough that Winters reached the door before she could close the distance.

"Winters! Stop right there!" Addison shouted, her hand moving toward her holstered weapon as she regained her balance.

But Winters didn't hesitate. He slammed into the push bar with his shoulder, setting off a shrill alarm as the emergency exit burst open. Through the doorway, Addison caught a glimpse of the gathering darkness outside—the sun had fully set now, leaving only the faintest purple glow at the horizon's edge.

Javier was already moving, vaulting over the fallen supplies with surprising agility for his size. Addison joined him at the threshold, staring out at the employee parking area behind the shelter. A chain-link fence enclosed a dog exercise yard to their right, while a row of dumpsters stood to their left. Beyond the fence, a small wooded area separated the shelter property from neighboring businesses. Winters was sprinting toward the trees, his blue volunteer shirt still visible in the low light.

"Dammit," Addison hissed. The alarm continued to blare, its piercing sound guaranteed to alert the rest of the staff. She made a split-second decision. "Let's go."

They stepped through the emergency exit into the cool evening air, the door swinging shut behind them with a heavy metallic clang.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The emergency exit alarm continued to shriek into the night as Addison and Javier vaulted over the chain-link fence in pursuit of Winters. The dying twilight had given way to full darkness, leaving only the weak illumination of distant security lights to guide their chase. Winters had a head start, but Addison could still make out his blue volunteer shirt as he crashed through the underbrush at the edge of the trees.

"He's heading for the loading area!" Javier called out, pointing to where Winters had veered left, away from the denser woods and toward what appeared to be a storage zone behind the main shelter building.

Addison adjusted course, her boots pounding against the soft earth as they emerged from the tree line. Ahead, Winters had reached a chaotic labyrinth of abandoned equipment and shelter supplies—a makeshift graveyard of broken dog crates, stacked shipping pallets, and rusting metal cages. The dim yellow glow of a single security light created more shadows than illumination, transforming the area into a nightmarish obstacle course.

"I'll go right," Javier shouted, already breaking off to circle the perimeter. "Cut him off if he tries to double back!"

Addison pushed forward, navigating through the narrow passages between towering stacks of wooden pallets. The air smelled of mildew and old pet bedding, with undertones of something sharper—cleaning chemicals, perhaps, or the lingering scent of animal waste from nearby dumpsters. Every few steps, something would crunch or snap beneath her feet—bits of plastic, fragments of broken bowls, the remnants of shelter operations discarded and forgotten.

A sudden clatter to her left sent her spinning in that direction, gun drawn but held low. She strained to listen over her own heavy breathing, catching the sound of more movement—rushed, panicked, the noise of someone with no training in stealth.

"Winters!" she called, her voice echoing off metal containers. "There's nowhere to go! Come out now!"

Silence answered her, broken only by the distant wail of the alarm still blaring at the emergency exit. Then came another crash, followed by cursing—Winters had knocked something over in his desperate flight.

Addison moved cautiously toward the sound, stepping over a collapsed stack of wire crates. The makeshift pathways between debris piles narrowed and twisted, creating a disorienting maze that seemed to change configuration with every turn. A row of dumpsters loomed ahead, their bulk casting deep shadows across the ground.

She paused, listening again. From somewhere to her right, she could hear Javier's measured footsteps as he circled the area. But the sound that caught her attention came from directly ahead—ragged breathing, the scrape of fabric against metal.

"I know you're there, Winters," she said, edging forward. "Don’t make this harder on yourself, okay? We just want to talk."

A sudden movement burst from behind the furthest dumpster—Winters making a desperate break for the open grass beyond the loading area. In the split second before he disappeared around the corner, Addison caught a glimpse of his face, contorted with panic, glasses askew on his sweaty face.

"He's making for the parking lot!" she shouted to Javier, already sprinting after their quarry.

She emerged from the maze of pallets and trash just in time to see Winters stumbling across the open field toward the dimly lit parking area about fifty yards away. His gait was uneven, perhaps from his mad dash through the obstacle course behind them.

Addison pushed herself harder, her years of running paying off as she closed the distance between them. Ahead, she could see Javier cutting across the field from the opposite direction, moving to intercept Winters if he reached the parking lot.

The ground beneath her feet changed from uneven dirt to cropped grass, allowing her to pick up speed. Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten. She could hear Winters's labored breathing now, could see the heaving of his shoulders as he pushed his body beyond its limits.

With a final burst of speed, Addison launched herself forward, tackling Winters from behind. They went down hard, Winters stumbling face-first into the damp grass while Addison maintained her grip as they fell. He bucked and twisted beneath her, surprising strength fueled by desperation, but Addison had subdued suspects much larger many times over. She locked her legs around his thrashing body, using her weight to pin him while reaching for her handcuffs.

"Stop fighting!" she ordered as Winters continued to struggle. "You're only making this worse for yourself!"

Javier arrived seconds later, dropping to his knees beside them to help secure Winters's flailing arms. Together, they managed to wrench his hands behind his back, the click of handcuffs finally bringing an end to his physical resistance.

"Carl Winters," Addison said, still breathing hard from the chase, "you're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

She continued reciting the Miranda rights as Javier helped haul Winters to his feet. The man's glasses had been knocked off in the struggle, leaving his face oddly vulnerable, his eyes blinking rapidly as if trying to bring the world back into focus. His volunteer shirt was stained with grass and dirt, torn at one shoulder from their takedown.

"We have a few questions for you, Carl," Javier said, his tone conversational but with an undercurrent of steel. "Starting with what we found in your basement this afternoon."

The effect of Javier's words was immediate and disturbing. Winters, who had been silent save for his heavy breathing, suddenly jerked his head up, eyes wide with a manic intensity that hadn't been there before.

"My research," he blurted, voice cracking. "You've seen my research? Did you understand it? Did you see the patterns?"

Addison exchanged a glance with Javier as they began walking their prisoner toward their vehicle, one agent on each side, gripping his upper arms. "We saw a lot of things in that basement, Carl. Mostly animals that looked like they'd been subjected to some pretty cruel experiments."

"No, no, no," Winters said, shaking his head violently. "Not cruel—necessary! You don't understand the potential. Limulus polyphemus—horseshoe crabs—their blood contains amebocytes that detect bacterial endotoxins at parts per trillion. Parts per trillion!" His voice rose with each word, taking on a fevered quality. "But human blood—specially selected human blood—can do so much more."

They reached the edge of the parking lot, the asphalt still warm from the day's heat. Winters continued, words tumbling out like water from a broken dam.

"The antibodies in certain blood types can recognize and neutralize oncological markers before they even manifest as cancer. Did you know that? It's all there in my notes. The medical establishment doesn't want you to know—they make too much money treating symptoms instead of finding cures!"

"Is that why you've been draining people of their blood, Carl?" Javier asked bluntly as they approached their car. "For your 'research'?"

Winters's head snapped toward Javier, his expression morphing from excitement to horror. "Draining? No! No, I would never—I don't—" He broke off, his breathing becoming more erratic. He seemed to understand what he was being accused of but was still far more caught up in explaining his research. "The animals are just the first stage. I collect samples, small samples, just enough to test the theories. I document everything meticulously. The scientific method requires control, repetition, verification."

He twisted in their grip, trying to face Addison directly. "You must have seen my journals! The formulations, the cross-reactivity tests, the immune response patterns. It's all there! Immune factors in certain types of blood with specific antibody configurations can recognize proteins associated with tissue degradation—they can literally reverse aging at the cellular level!"

Addison kept her expression neutral as she unlocked the car, but inside, her mind was racing. Winters clearly believed every word he was saying, but his delivery—the wild-eyed intensity, the disjointed leaps between topics—suggested a man who had lost touch with reality. Yet his scientific knowledge seemed extensive, if warped by whatever delusions were driving him. It was literally like being entertained by a mad scientist.

"So you're telling us you didn't kill Rebecca Palmer or Michael Sullivan?" she asked, watching his face carefully as Javier opened the rear door.

Winters's expression collapsed into confusion. "Kill? Who? I don't—I don't kill anyone. I save lives. My research will save millions. Billions! Do you understand what I'm telling you?" His voice rose to a near-shout. "I've isolated antibody configurations that can identify pre-cancerous cells before they even become malignant! These people—their blood contains the cure for diseases we haven't even named yet!"

As they guided him into the back seat, Winters suddenly went rigid, his eyes fixing on something invisible in the distance. "The blood must be pure," he whispered, his voice dropping dramatically. "Contamination ruins everything. That's why the samples have to be fresh, have to be processed immediately. Time degrades the factors. Oxygen exposure neutralizes the active compounds. It has to be preserved, has to be protected."

Javier secured Winters in the back seat, double-checking the handcuffs while Addison watched their prisoner's increasingly erratic behavior. The man's mood seemed to swing wildly between lucidity and something else—not quite delirium, but a fixation so intense it bordered on religious fervor. It was getting to the point that she really wasn’t even listening anymore—just keeping her ears attuned for any words or phrases that might incriminate him.

"Blood carries memory," Winters continued, speaking now as if giving a lecture to an invisible audience. "Genetic memory, immunological memory. The animals showed the transfer effect—mice transfused with blood from mice that had learned maze patterns performed better than control groups. It's all in my notes. All documented. Validated. Reproducible."

As Javier closed the door, muffling Winters's ongoing monologue, he gave Addison a meaningful look. "Think he's our guy?"

Addison glanced through the window at their prisoner, who was now muttering to himself, head bobbing slightly as if in conversation with an unseen companion. "He's definitely disturbed, and the animal experiments match what our killer would need to perfect their techniques. But something doesn't add up. I mean…he’s nuts, right?"

"Maybe," Javier agreed. "Our crime scenes were immaculate. This guy..." He gestured toward the car, where Winters had pressed his face against the window, breath fogging the glass as he continued his disjointed ramblings. "He seems too chaotic, too disconnected. Not capable of being that neat. Hell…even his house indicates that."

"Let's get him back to the field office," Addison said. "We'll see if his story holds up under formal questioning. And we need to check his alibi for the nights Palmer and Sullivan were killed."

As they got into the car, Winters's voice rose again from the back seat, nearly shouting now, ad with a frenzied passion that bordered on psychotic. "The blood values are the key! O negative, universal donor, but with specific antibody profiles that indicate natural immunity to carcinogenesis. It's all there in the samples. The animals proved it works—remission in seventy-three percent of test subjects with induced tumors. Don't you see? I'm not hurting anyone. I'm saving everyone!"

Javier started the engine, trying to tune out Winters's continued monologue about blood factors and immunity profiles. Whether or not he was their killer, it was clear that Winters was a man consumed by obsession, his mind fractured by whatever truths or delusions he believed he'd discovered in his makeshift basement laboratory.

And if he wasn't responsible for the bloodless bodies of Palmer and Sullivan, that meant their real killer was still out there, several steps ahead.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Despite the late hour, there was still a slight buzz of activity inside the field office when Addison and Javier returned. After processing Winters and having him escorted down to the interrogation rooms, they hurried to Loomis’s office, certain that she’d still be there. Being proven correct, they stood rather than sat on the other side of the desk. The adrenaline from the chase had worn off, leaving both agents anxious for the next steps as they looked to their supervisor, waiting for her reaction to their retelling of things.

"So you're telling me this guy was volunteering at an animal shelter and taking the animals home to experiment on them?" Loomis asked, her pen tapping against her desk in a staccato rhythm that matched Addison's mounting headache.

"That seems to be the case,” Addison said. “Although he hasn’t come out and actually admitted it to us just yet.”

Javier nodded, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall. "Down in his basement, there are all these journals documenting his experiments. The animals were alive but showed evidence of repeated blood draws. He's been testing theories, keeping meticulous records. That he has admitted to."

Loomis's expression hardened as she processed the information. "And you believe this connects to our bloodless victims?"

"It fits," Javier said. "Medical knowledge, obsession with blood, access to equipment. When we approached him at the shelter, he ran—classic guilty behavior. And he’s very passionate about what he’s been up to."

"There's something else though," Addison added, unable to shake the nagging doubt that had been growing since their arrest. "Winters seems... unhinged. Like he's had some kind of psychological break. His speech patterns are erratic, he shifts between topics without transition, and he genuinely believes he's on the verge of some revolutionary medical discovery."

"You're saying he's crazy?" Loomis asked bluntly.

"I'm saying his grip on reality seems tenuous at best," Addison clarified. "And it makes me wonder if someone in that mental state could execute murders as methodical and pristine as the ones we're investigating."

Loomis considered this, her fingers drumming against the polished surface of her desk. "You still want to question him?"

"Absolutely," Addison nodded firmly. "But I'd suggest getting a psychiatric professional down here afterward. If nothing else, we need to understand the extent of his... condition... to determine if he's even capable of standing trial—if he is our guy."

"I'll make the arrangements," Loomis agreed. "In the meantime, see what you can get out of him. If he's responsible for Palmer and Sullivan, I want a confession tonight.”

As they left Loomis's office and headed toward the elevator, Addison felt the tension coiling in her stomach. Something about this case wasn't clicking into place, despite the mounting evidence pointing toward Winters. It was starting to make her doubt her instincts, something she took offense to. The elevator doors slid open with a muted chime, and they stepped inside, alone in the small space as the doors closed behind them.

"You're overthinking this," Javier observed as he pressed the button for the interrogation level. The harsh fluorescent light emphasized the lines of fatigue etched around his eyes. “I can already tell.”

"Something doesn't fit," she admitted, watching the floor numbers decrease. "Winters is clearly obsessed with blood, clearly experimenting in ways that echo our killer's MO. But the crime scenes were immaculate, Javier. Surgical. Perfect. Winters can barely hold a coherent conversation."

"Maybe the pressure of the murders caused his break?" Javier suggested. "He could have been more stable when he killed Palmer and Sullivan."

"Maybe. But his house was sort of a wreck, too,” she pointed out.

The tension between them crackled like static electricity in the confined space of the elevator. Without warning, Javier leaned in and pressed a quick, soft kiss to her lips.

"What was that for?" she asked, momentarily jarred from her spiraling thoughts.

"To stop that brain of yours from combusting," he said with a half-smile. "Look, this might be it. Winters could be our guy. If he is, this case wraps before anyone else dies. There might be nothing to worry about after all."

"I'm not worried," Addison insisted, though her furrowed brow suggested otherwise. "It just seems that if Winters has had some kind of psychotic break, would he be capable of carrying out these very technical, careful procedures at each murder scene? The Palmer and Sullivan scenes were practically sterile."

The elevator slowed to a stop, the soft ding announcing their arrival, cutting off any response Javier might have offered. The thought hung between them, heavy and unresolved, as the doors slid open to reveal the stark corridor leading to the interrogation rooms.

They walked in silence, their footsteps echoing against the polished floor. A younger agent was standing duty, a woman Addison had only met a single time before; she was brand new, fresh out of school. Addison was pretty sure her last name was Chen. She stood outside Interrogation Room 3, looking mildly disturbed.

"He's been talking to himself non-stop," Chen informed them, keeping his voice low. "Something about protein markers and blood memory. Started muttering about horseshoe crabs a few minutes ago."

"Thanks for the warning," Javier replied, his hand already on the door handle.

Inside, Carl Winters sat at the metal table, hands cuffed in front of him, his glasses askew on his sweaty face. His volunteer shirt was stained with grass and dirt from the takedown. He looked up as they entered, his expression shifting rapidly from anxiety to what almost seemed like relief.

"Finally!" he exclaimed. "I need my notebooks. My data. There are time-sensitive experiments that require monitoring. The cross-reactivity tests must be documented at precise intervals, or the entire study is compromised. And I need to make sure all of the animals get some water."

"Mr. Winters," Javier interrupted, taking a seat across from him while Addison remained standing. "We're not here to discuss your research schedule. We're here to talk about what you've been doing in your basement."

Winters blinked rapidly, as if trying to process the change in topic. "My work? Yes, of course. The basement provides optimal temperature control for blood sample preservation. Minimal light exposure prevents degradation of the photosensitive compounds in certain antibody configurations. And I’ve already told you a great deal about the work I’m doing. I can—"

"Let's talk about the animals, Carl," Addison cut in, her voice firm. She really didn’t want to listen to him go off on another blood-related tangent. "Why do you have those animals?"

Winters's demeanor shifted, becoming more focused, almost professorial. "Test subjects. For controlled observation of blood transfer effects. The shelter gives me the opportunity to select specimens with diverse genetic backgrounds, which is essential for validating cross-species applicability of the findings."

"And what exactly are you testing?" Javier asked, keeping his tone conversational. “And please keep the answer simple and as short as possible.”

Addison could tell that Winters was doing everything he could to not dive right back into the same tone and passion he's displayed just after his arrest. He took a deep breath and did his best, though. "Blood factors. Antibody configurations. Immune responses to introduced antigens." Winters leaned forward, his voice dropping as if sharing a secret. "I've identified specific protein markers in certain blood types that demonstrate enhanced cellular recognition of malignant transformations. The animals provide the controlled environment necessary to document the effects when these blood factors are transferred."

"So you're taking blood from some animals and giving it to others?" Addison clarified, studying his face.

"Precisely!" Winters nodded enthusiastically. "Cross-transfusion experiments. The results have been remarkable. Seventy-three percent efficacy in reversing induced tumors in the rodent models. The canine subjects show enhanced immune responses after receiving targeted blood factor injections." His speech was becoming more rapid, more excited. "The feline models demonstrated the most surprising results—cognitive enhancement following transfusion with blood containing specific antibody configurations."

Winters continued, his words coming faster, sentences fragmenting. "Blood memory—cellular memory—protein recognition patterns that transcend species boundaries—the implications for human medicine are exponential—revolutionary—paradigm-shifting—"

Addison exchanged a glance with Javier, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. They were losing him again.

"And have you moved beyond animal testing, Carl?" Javier asked carefully. "Have you tried these techniques on people?"

Winters's expression froze, then collapsed into mild horror. "People? No! No, that would be unethical without proper protocols. Absolutely horrific! And, you'd need IRB approval anyway. Informed consent documentation. I'm not ready for human trials. The methodology requires further refinement, more animal model validation, proper statistical analysis of—"

"But you believe human blood contains these special factors you're looking for?" Addison interrupted, steering him back to the core issue.

"Of course! Human blood is the ultimate source. The animals are just proving the concept." Winters's eyes grew distant, unfocused. "Certain human blood types, with specific antibody configurations, contain immune factors capable of recognizing and neutralizing oncological markers, autoimmune triggers, even neurodegenerative precursors. It's all documented in my notebooks. The patterns are there if you know how to interpret them!"

“But you’re doing this in the privacy of your own little lab in your basement,” Addison pointed out. “Surely you can see how that would be alarming and raise all sorts of questions.”

He nodded and looked to the table, looking uneasy and maybe even guilty for the first time. “Yes, I can…I can see that.”

"Mr. Winters, we're investigating two murders," she said bluntly. "Rebecca Palmer and Michael Sullivan. Both were completely drained of blood. Not a drop left in their bodies. And it seems the killer knows quite a bit about blood and how to remove it from the human body—something you were familiar with in your previous position. And something your recent experiments seem to also lend favor to."

The effect was immediate and dramatic. Winters's face drained of color, his eyes widening behind his glasses. "M-murders? No, no, no! You think I—? No!" His breathing became rapid, shallow. "I don't hurt people! I heal! I discover! My research will save millions!"

"Then explain to us where you were on the nights of April 15th and April 18th," Javier pressed.

"I—I don't remember exact dates," Winters stammered, genuine panic rising in his voice. "I work, I research, I document. Days blur together when you're pursuing breakthrough science."

“Well, the 18th was yesterday,” Addison said. “Does that make it a bit easier for you?”

“I was…I was at the shelter until closing and then at home…working on my research.”

"You ran when we approached you at the shelter," Addison pointed out. "That suggests guilt, Mr. Winters. I mean, you didn’t even think twice about it before you took off running."

"I ran because they don't understand!" Winters cried, his voice cracking. "The shelter thinks I foster animals. They don't know about the research. If you told them, they'd cut off my access to test subjects. You…you identified yourself as FBI and I panicked."

His hands were shaking now, the handcuffs rattling against the table. "I don't even hurt the animals! I take small blood samples, run my tests, document the results. I return them healthy and well-fed! Ask my sister—she checks on them for when she comes to visit. She…”

Winters suddenly broke down completely, tears streaming down his face as his shoulders heaved with sobs. "I'm not a killer. I'm a scientist. A researcher. I would never—never—drain someone of their blood. That's—that's monstrous! It's wasteful! It's—"

He collapsed forward, his forehead hitting the table with a dull thud as he continued to weep. "Please, you have to believe me. Check my equipment. The collection apparatus I use for the animals takes small samples—milliliters, not liters. I don't have the equipment for complete exsanguination...not the sort you’re talking about. I don't have the storage capacity for that volume of blood. I don't—I couldn't—"

Addison watched the breakdown with mounting frustration. Either Winters was genuinely innocent of the murders and having a genuine psychological breakdown, or he was giving an Oscar-worthy performance. His terror at being labeled a killer seemed raw, visceral—not the calculated response of someone trying to deflect suspicion. And with each second she witnessed it, she became more certain that they had the wrong man.

She felt defeat and disappointment welling up in her. The pale, dead faces of Sullivan and Palmer rose up in her mind’s eye, accusing.

"I need a break," she announced abruptly, already moving toward the door. She felt guilty and a bit immature as she made her retreat, but it was too late. She was already out of the door, leaving a sobbing Carl Winters behind as Javier watched on.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Addison’s retreat took her to the breakroom, mainly because it was where her feet usually carried her whenever something was bothering her. It was, after all, where they kept the coffee. And the breakroom down here on the sub-level had the strongest coffee in the building. She stood by the chipped Formica table, staring at the microwave as it hummed, watching her mug of coffee spin in slow, hypnotic circles. The digital display counted down seconds that felt like hours, her brain running parallel calculations on everything they knew about Carl Winters.

The animal experiments. The rambling theories. The meticulous journals documenting blood factors and antibody configurations that might or might not actually exist. The complete mental breakdown when confronted with murder accusations. None of it lined up with the pristine crime scenes, the surgical precision of their killer.

The microwave beeped, but Addison didn't immediately reach for her coffee. She stood motionless, lost in the labyrinth of her thoughts, trying to find the thread that would lead her out. Something was missing. Something obvious that she couldn't quite—

"Ground control to Major Shine," Javier's voice broke through her mental fog. She turned to find him leaning against the doorframe, his tired eyes studying her face with concern. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she said automatically, retrieving her coffee. "Just thinking."

"Dangerous habit," he replied, moving to the counter and selecting his own chipped mug from the communal collection. He poured the last of the coffee sludge into it, eyeing the liquid with suspicion. "Think we should call HAZMAT for this?"

Addison attempted a smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Probably. But it's got caffeine, and that's all that matters right now."

Javier took a sip, shrugging. "Surprisingly not awful." He drank a bit more, leaning against the counter. "So what's actually going on in that head of yours?"

She sank into one of the plastic chairs, cradling her mug. "This feels too easy. Winters is clearly disturbed, clearly fixated on blood. But I can't reconcile his mental state with our crime scenes." She took a sip of coffee, wincing at both the taste and the temperature. "And even if he is our guy, any halfway competent lawyer will get him off on an insanity plea. He's textbook non compos mentis."

"Assuming he's our guy," Javier agreed, taking the seat across from her. "Though I'm starting to share your doubts."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, both lost in thought. The fluorescent light overhead flickered intermittently, matching the erratic rhythm of Addison's thoughts.

"How does someone like that end up volunteering at an animal shelter anyway?" she asked finally. "Don't they do background checks?"

"Maybe his breakdown is recent," Javier suggested. "Like very recent. He could have seemed functional enough when he started. A little odd, maybe, but not dangerous."

Addison's fingers drummed against the table, a nervous habit she'd never quite managed to break. "What about Dr. Wright? How did Winters slip through the cracks there? If he was this unstable while working in a medical research setting, surely someone would have noticed."

"Maybe that's why he was let go," Javier suggested. "Maybe the true signs of the decline started there, and Wright saw the warning signs before it got this bad."

"Which means we need to talk to Wright again." Addison's mind was already racing ahead, mentally composing the questions she would ask. "And we need another round with Winters before the shrink gets here."

"What's our approach?" Javier asked, setting his now-empty mug aside. "He's already on the edge. Push too hard and we risk a complete shutdown."

"We need to engage with his research," Addison decided. "Not the murder angle, though; that seems to have snapped something inside of him. But his theories about blood factors, immunity profiles. If we can get him talking about his work without challenging his reality, we might learn something useful."

"Like whether he has the knowledge and skills for complete exsanguination," Javier nodded. "Clever."

"We validate his research without endorsing it," Addison continued, warming to the strategy. "Ask about his methodology, his equipment, his procedures. If he's familiar with the techniques our killer used, it'll come out naturally in his explanations."

"And if he's not?"

"Then we know for certain he's not our guy." She took another sip of her coffee, grimacing at the taste. "Either way, we get clarity."

"What about his records at the research facility? Wright said Winters was fired for unauthorized experiments. We should request—"

The door swung open, cutting off Javier's thought. SAIC Loomis stood in the doorway, her expression grave. The lines around her mouth seemed deeper than usual, the set of her shoulders rigid. Addison felt her stomach drop before Loomis even spoke. She knew what was coming, and if she was right, it would be yet another reason to let Carl Winters go.

"I just got a call," Loomis said. "There's a third victim. Just discovered."

Addison set her mug down, the coffee forgotten. A third victim. While Winters was in custody. Their theory had just collapsed like a house of cards in a hurricane.

"Same MO?" Javier asked, though they all knew the answer already.

“Looks like it.”

Addison was already on her feet, her mind churning. “What do we know?” she asked, already prepared to rush out of the door. “Give us everything.”

Loomis did just that, and within just seconds, the case seemed to get darker and much, much more difficult.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The new crime scene was a house that sat on a tree-lined street in Maple Leaf, a quiet neighborhood where every lawn looked manicured, every front porch adorned with tasteful seasonal decorations. As Javier pulled their Bureau-issued sedan to the curb, Addison stared through the windshield at the modest one-story craftsman with its fresh paint and neatly trimmed hedges. A lone Seattle PD cruiser sat in the driveway, its presence jarring against the peaceful suburban tableau.

Their third victim was Daniel Martinez, forty-nine. He worked as an accountant and, according to the scant bit of information Loomis had shared, he’d been divorced two years ago. No criminal record to speak of.

"Well," Addison said as she opened her door. "It's looking like this happened while we had Winters in custody. So, I guess we can stop wondering and speculating about whether or not he's our guy.

The facts tumbled through her mind as they approached the house. Three victims. All exsanguinated with surgical precision. No signs of forced entry. No significant struggle. The killer was escalating – three days between the first two victims, and now barely two days later, a third.

The uniformed officer at the door nodded as they approached, lifting the crime scene tape for them to duck under. "Agents. Detective Harris is inside."

The foyer opened into a living room that could have been lifted straight from a Pottery Barn catalog – tasteful furniture in neutral tones, carefully curated art pieces, family photos arranged in matching frames. If not for the body on the sofa and the broken teacup on the hardwood floor, it would have been the picture of upper-middle-class tranquility.

Detective Harris, a heavyset man with salt-and-pepper hair and perpetually tired eyes, looked up from his notepad as they entered. "Hey there, agents. Thanks for showing up so quickly." There was no hostility in his tone – just the resignation of a man who had seen too many crime scenes.

"What do we have?" Addison asked, pulling on nitrile gloves as she approached the body.

"Daniel Martinez. CPA at Deloitte. Found by patrol after a neighbor called it in. Same deal as the other vics – not a drop of blood left in him. And not a single speck to be seen around the house from what I’ve seen."

They stepped further into the house and the scene told a very simply story. Daniel Martinez was laying on his sofa, as if he'd simply dozed off while watching the evening news. His skin had the same alabaster quality as Palmer and Sullivan, his lips tinged blue, his expression peaceful. He wore casual clothes – jeans and a navy sweater – and his feet were bare. A few away from the sofa, where the living room area stopped and gave way to the kitchen, a teacup lay shattered on the hardwood floor. A dark stain had formed as a result.

"Time of death?" Javier asked, circling the perimeter of the room, eyes scanning for anything out of place.

"I hasn't made it yet," Harris replied. "But based on body temp and lividity – or lack thereof – probably between seven and eight tonight."

"That's recent," Addison murmured, leaning closer to examine Martinez's arm. “About two hours ago.” She leaned closer to the body and looked to his right arm. She used her phone as a makeshift magnifying glass, zooming in and allowing it to focus. Sure enough, there it was – the same perfectly placed needle mark she'd found on the others.

“Damn, it is exactly the same,” Addison said.

"Looks that way," Harris agreed. "With one notable exception. This time, we got a witness."

Addison's head snapped up. "A witness?"

"Neighbor across the street. A guy named Peter Lawson. Says he saw someone in scrubs leaving the house in a hurry around 8:45. Thought it was weird, came over to check, got no answer at the door, so he called it in."

"Less than an hour ago," Javier said, checking his watch. It was now 9:42 PM.

Addison felt a surge of adrenaline. "The killer has an hour's head start, at most."

"Yeah, but a head start to where?" Harris asked. "No vehicle description, no clear idea of where the figure was headed.”

Addison studied the broken teacup and the dark stain on the floor. Something fragrant and herbal, from the smell of it. "Same method as the others. Victim was sedated – probably through his evening tea – then exsanguinated. The killer didn't even bother moving him to the bedroom this time."

"Getting more confident," Javier observed from across the room. "Or more rushed."

"Or both," Addison replied. She stood and surveyed the room more broadly. No signs of ransacking, no obvious theft. Just like the others, the crime scene was unnervingly tidy aside from the broken cup. "The clinical precision is still there, though. Look at the position of the body – relaxed, no defensive wounds. The needle placement would have been perfect."

"So our guy knows what he's doing," Harris said. "Medical training?”

“Yeah,” Javier said, “that’s what we’ve been thinking."

"But the rushed exit is new,” Addison said. “The other scenes were immaculate – like the killer took their time, cleaned up every trace." She gestured to the broken cup. "This is the first real evidence of disruption we've seen."

Javier had made his way to the kitchen and was examining the contents of the countertop. "Tea canister is still open here. Box of chamomile next to it. Kettle's cool now."

Addison joined him, studying the kitchen. Clean dishes in the drying rack. Mail sorted into neat piles on the counter. A shopping list magnetized to the refrigerator. "Same pattern as the others – orderly home, orderly routine, interrupted by our killer. But something made him hurry this time."

She moved back to the living room, crouching beside the sofa to examine the carpet beneath it. "No blood spatter, no signs of cleanup. Even rushing, our guy managed to keep it clean."

"Addison…Martinez sounds familiar, right?”

She knew exactly what he was thinking. If the name didn’t sound familiar, that meant it wasn’t on Dr. Wight’s list. And if that were the case, then they were right back to the bottom.

"Yeah, maybe." Addison replied, standing again. “Was it on the list?”

"He is," Harris said. "But when local PD came by to speak with him, he wasn't home. Talk about shitty timing." He sighed, genuinely disgusted by the situation. "Three victims in a week, same unusual MO – there has to be something linking them."

Addison exchanged a glance with Javier. "We thought it was a medical study, but now I’m not so sure.”

"Back to square one," Javier finished.

Addison shook her head. "Not quite. The witness might have seen something useful, even if he doesn't realize it." She then looked to Harris and said, “You mind hanging out a bit longer while we speak to the neighbor?”

“Help yourself.”

As they headed for the door, Addison saw that the ME had arrived – a young woman Addison didn't recognize,. Addison paused to introduce herself and Javier, explaining the similar cases and what to look for.

“Oh, I’m very familiar,” the ME said. “Been reading up on the other two cases all day. Really eerie stuff.”

"Check for midazolam in the tox screen," Addison advised. "And look over the needle mark in the median cubital vein. Perfectly placed, minimal tissue damage."

"Will do," the ME replied, already pulling on gloves as she entered the house.

Outside, the night air felt cool against Addison's face after the stuffy interior of the crime scene. She knew that it was getting late but this seemed to be one of those cases where time almost seemed to not even exist. Morning, evening, night…it didn’t matter, not until the case was wrapped.

"You okay?" Javier asked quietly as they crossed the street toward the neighbor's house.

"Just processing," she replied. "This case keeps shifting under our feet."

He had nothing to say in response, so he reached out and quickly took her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. In front of them, the neighboring home was similar to Martinez's – only slightly smaller, with a children's bicycle leaning against the porch railing. Javier rang the doorbell, and they could hear movement inside before the door opened.

The man who answered was in his early forties, with a receding hairline and wire-rimmed glasses. Behind him stood a woman of similar age who Addison presumed was his wife. Both wore expressions of concern mixed with the slightly ghoulish excitement that often accompanied proximity to something tragic but not personally threatening.

“Hi, we’re with the FBI,” Addison said, showing her badge and ID. “Could we please get your names?”

“I’m Bob Lawson,” the man said. “This is my wife, Nina.”

"I'm Special Agent Shine, and this is my partner, Special Agent Esposito. We'd like to ask you a few questions about what you saw earlier this evening. The detective across the street says you’re the one who called it in.”

"Of course, of course. Come in," Lawson stepped back, ushering them into a living room cluttered with family photos and well-worn furniture.

Nina Lawson nodded nervously. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?"

"We're fine, thank you," Addison replied, sitting on the edge of an armchair as the Lawsons settled onto their sofa. "Mr. Lawson, could you walk us through exactly what you saw tonight?"

Lawson leaned forward, clearly eager to help. "I was taking out the recycling – we forgot to put it out this morning, and tomorrow's pickup day." He gestured vaguely toward their driveway. "I noticed someone coming out of Daniel's house – a man, I think, though I couldn't see clearly in the dark. What caught my attention was that he was wearing what looked like doctor's scrubs. You know, those blue medical outfits. And not like a costume, but the real thing.”

"Could you see his face?" Javier asked.

Lawson shook his head regretfully. "No, he was wearing one of those surgical masks, you know? Daniel never mentioned any health problems. And the person seemed to be in a hurry – not quite running, but definitely moving fast."

"What time was this?" Addison asked.

"Around 7:40, give or take a few minutes," Lawson replied. "After the person left, I went over to check on Daniel. He's – he was – a good neighbor. Quiet, kept to himself mostly, but always friendly. He’d been through a divorce recently—well, about two years ago, I think. And I know that took its toll on him. Anyway…when he didn't answer the door, I got worried and called the police."

"Did you see which direction this person went when they left?" Addison pressed.

"That way," Lawson pointed east. "Got in their car and left."

“What make and model was the car?”

“A Nissan. Sorry, that’s all I know. I was so distracted by the way he was dressed that I didn’t even think to pay attention to the car. I mean…I had no way of knowing…”

“That’s quite alright,” Addison said.

"Did you notice anything else?" Javier asked. "Height, build, race, age – anything that might help us identify this person?"

Lawson frowned in concentration. "Medium height, I'd say. Not tall, not short. Slim build. As for race or age – I really couldn't tell with the mask and cap, and it was getting dark." He looked up apologetically. "I'm sorry I can't be more helpful."

"You've been very helpful," Addison assured him, though she felt the familiar frustration of a witness with good intentions but limited useful information. "One more question: did you notice anything unusual in the neighborhood recently? Any strange vehicles, people you didn't recognize hanging around?"

Both Lawsons shook their heads. "It's been pretty quiet," Nina said. "That's why this is so shocking. Things like this don't happen here."

Man, if I had a quarter for every time I’ve heard that, Addison thought but didn't say.

After a few more minutes of questions that yielded nothing substantial, they thanked the Lawsons and headed back across the street. The ME's van was still parked in front of Martinez's house, its presence almost comforting in its official capacity.

"So we have a killer in scrubs with an hour's head start, possibly headed toward public transportation," Javier summarized as they stood on the sidewalk. "Not much to go on."

"But it's something," Addison replied. "And the timeline definitely rules out Winters." She glanced back at Martinez's house, picturing the peaceful body on the sofa, the spilled tea. "Our killer is escalating, getting bolder but also sloppier. Not only being seen, but being seen wearing something as defined as medical scrubs."

"Makes you wonder what changed," Javier mused. "The first two scenes were pristine."

"Maybe they're running out of time," Addison suggested, a new theory forming in her mind. "Maybe one of our earlier theories is still worthwhile. Maybe the killer feels he’s on a clock.”

Javier raised an eyebrow. "You think our killer is sick? Using the blood for some kind of treatment?"

"It would explain the complete extraction," she said, her mind racing ahead. "If they believe they need every drop, if they're desperate enough..."

"That's a big leap, Addison."

"Is it?" She turned to face him fully. "Think about it. The precision, the medical knowledge, the care taken not to spill a drop. This isn't about killing; it's about harvesting. And now they're getting desperate, taking bigger risks, moving faster between victims."

Javier considered it for a moment. "So we're looking for someone with medical training and a blood disorder?"

"Or someone who believes they have one," Addison amended. "Could be Munchausen's, could be a genuine condition. Either way, they believe these specific victims have something in their blood that they need."

As they walked back to their car, Addison was momentarily overcome with a contradictory feeling that had settled over her – that  they were simultaneously closer to catching the killer and further from understanding the full picture. Every new piece of evidence seemed to both clarify and complicate the puzzle.

The killer had an hour's head start on them. And while it seemed a very small window of time, Addison had seen more than enough cases to know that often, even an hour could be the difference between bringing a murderer in and watching them slip away for good.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Addison jerked awake with a start, her chin slipping off her palm where it had been propped. A crick in her neck protested the sudden movement. She blinked against the harsh fluorescent light of the conference room, momentarily disoriented. Papers were scattered across the table in front of her—crime scene photos, witness statements, victim profiles—a chaotic mosaic of their investigation.

She glanced guiltily at the wall clock: 3:56 AM. Somehow, about an hour and fifteen minutes had slipped past while she'd dozed off. Her mouth felt dry, her eyes gritty with exhaustion.

Javier pushed through the door, a single sheet of paper in his hand. His tie was loose, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and stubble darkened his jaw. He looked as tired as she felt. Apparently, his re-entering the room had been what pulled her from her doze.

"Found something," he said, sliding the paper across the table toward her.

Addison rubbed her eyes, forcing herself to focus. The document was a printout of Daniel Martinez's medical history—or at least the parts they could access without a court order.

"No connection to Wright's research," Javier said, tapping his finger against the paper. "Martinez never participated in any clinical trials, never even met Wright, according to his appointment records. No connection to the research facility at all. I’ve put in a request with his primary care physician for medical records but given the time…I don’t see us getting those anytime soon."

"What the hell?" Addison muttered, the last cobwebs of sleep clearing from her mind. She scanned the document, confirming what Javier had already told her. "So the killer isn't necessarily locked into the list we got from Wright. Which means we've got officers watching Wright's study participants for nothing?"

"Maybe not for nothing," Javier said, taking a seat across from her. "But it does mean our working theory just went out the window."

Addison raked her fingers through her hair, frustration building. With Martinez murdered while they had Winters in custody, it effectively meant that Winters could definitively be ruled out as their killer—though he remained in custody for animal cruelty. And now they'd lost their only solid connection between victims. The list they'd been so sure would lead them to the killer's pattern was looking increasingly irrelevant.

"So what do they have in common?" she asked, more to herself than to Javier. "Three victims, completely different backgrounds, completely different social circles. Palmer was a socialite, Sullivan a professor, Martinez an accountant. What links them?"

"Could be random," Javier suggested, though his tone indicated he didn't believe it. "Some killers pick victims of opportunity."

"Not this one," Addison said firmly. "The execution is too precise, too deliberate. Each victim was targeted specifically. I doubt taking blood in this manner would be just an act of convenience or opportunity. No…these people were selected."

She stood up and moved to the whiteboard where they'd created a timeline. Three photographs were pinned at intervals: Rebecca Palmer, elegant and polished; Michael Sullivan, academic and thoughtful; Daniel Martinez, reserved and professional. Three people who likely would never have crossed paths in life, now forever linked in death.

"Maybe we're overthinking this," she said after a moment. "Maybe it is about the blood itself. Not research, not antibodies, just... blood."

"Black market sale?" Javier suggested. "There's a thriving underground trade. High-end clients willing to pay for untainted supply."

"Possibly," Addison nodded slowly. "O-negative would certainly fetch a premium. Universal donor, no rejection issues..." She trailed off as a new thought struck her. "Wait a minute."

She moved back to the table, shuffling through the victim files until she found what she was looking for. "Palmer was O-negative," she said, tapping the medical report. "What about Sullivan and Martinez?"

Javier was already ahead of her, scanning through Sullivan's file. "Sullivan too. O-negative."

Addison turned to the paper Javier had just brought in, searching for Martinez's blood type. There it was, circled in Javier's handwriting: O-negative.

"All three," she said, a mix of triumph and dread in her voice. "All universal donors."

"That's our link," Javier said, standing to join her at the board. "But it still doesn't tell us why."

"Could be selling it," Addison mused. "O-negative blood is always in demand, always in short supply. But the risk-reward ratio seems off. Murder charges for what, maybe ten thousand dollars of blood product? There are easier ways to make money."

"Unless it's not about the money," Javier suggested. "What if it's about the blood itself? Someone who needs regular transfusions might go to extreme lengths if the regular supply chain was cut off."

"Maybe," Addison conceded. "But the volume doesn't make sense. The killer took every drop from these victims—that's far more than someone would need for personal use." She paced the length of the conference room, her mind racing through possibilities. "Unless they're stockpiling it."

She stopped suddenly, turning to face Javier. "We need to look for someone with both the motive and the means. Someone with medical training who would know how to extract blood properly, and someone with a reason to want large quantities of O-negative blood."

"That's still a pretty wide net," Javier pointed out.

"Not as wide as you might think," Addison replied, moving to her laptop. "We're looking for someone with medical training who's been in trouble before—maybe fired for inappropriate behavior or suspected of theft. Someone who knows both how to access patient records to identify O-negative donors and how to perform complete exsanguination."

She logged into the Bureau database, pulling up the search interface. Javier watched over her shoulder as she began entering parameters.

"Looking for a very specific sort of creep," she said, working her magic on the keyboard. "People who've been fired from jobs at hospitals or doctor's offices that have criminal records."

"Yeah, that's pretty narrowed down," Javier said. "I'd think the pool wouldn't be too deep."

She smiled tiredly at him. "Hey, while I'm doing this hard work, why don't you scamper off and get us some coffee?"

"Yes, dear," he replied with a mock salute, heading toward the door.

As Javier's footsteps receded down the hallway, Addison focused on her screen. She applied filters to the database search: medical professionals, Seattle metropolitan area, employment termination, allegations of theft or misconduct. The system churned for a moment, cross-referencing multiple databases.

The first batch of results appeared—mostly drug diversions, nurses or pharmacists caught stealing opioids or sedatives. And there were quite a few of them. She refined her search further, adding blood products to the parameters. This shortened the list dramatically.

She scrolled through the flagged profiles, scanning for anyone matching what they were looking for in their killer. There were a few results: a respiratory therapist fired for selling prescription pads, a phlebotomist with a history of workplace harassment, a nursing assistant who'd falsified credentials.

And then—there he was.

Matthew Thorne. Thirty-seven. Former nurse at Northwest Medical Center, terminated two years ago after being accused of stealing blood samples. According to the database, he was never formally charged due to insufficient evidence, but the hospital had fired him anyway. His employment record noted specialized training in phlebotomy and intravenous therapy.

Addison stared at the screen, a jolt of new excitement and hope coursing through her. This was their guy—it had to be. The profile fit perfectly: medical training, history of blood theft, knowledge of hospital systems that would allow him to identify O-negative patients.

She was genuinely surprised at how quickly the search had yielded results. "I guess the pool isn't that deep," she murmured to herself.

Thorne's profile included a DMV photo: average height, slim build, nondescript features that would blend into any crowd. The kind of face patients would trust, colleagues would forget. His current employment was listed as a customer service representative at First Sound Bank in downtown Seattle.

Javier returned, balancing two steaming cups of coffee. "You look wide awake," he commented, setting one cup in front of her. "What happened?"

Instead of answering, Addison turned the laptop to face him, taking a grateful sip of the coffee as Javier read Thorne's profile.

Javier's expression shifted from curiosity to focused intensity as he scanned the information. "Fired for stealing blood two years ago," he read aloud. "Maybe he was practicing."

"Or already killing, for all we know," Addison suggested. "We should check for any unsolved cases with similar MOs from that time period."

"His current address is in Fremont," Javier noted, reaching the end of the profile. "Works at First Sound Bank downtown."

"Nine-to-five job at a bank," Addison mused. "Perfect cover. Respectable, consistent hours, plenty of free time in the evenings to stalk victims. And the sort of job that doesn’t really allow their employees to stand out."

She pulled up a map on her phone, calculating distances. "Fremont's not far from Martinez's place in Maple Leaf. Maybe ten minutes by car."

"Do you think we should make a pre-dawn visit?" Javier asked, already gathering his things.

"Absolutely," Addison replied, closing her laptop and sliding it into her bag. "We can be there in twenty minutes. Catch him while he's still home."

"Okay... so what are we waiting for?" Javier asked, draining the last of his coffee. "Sunrise to come along and send this guy back to his coffin?"

Addison snorted as she shrugged into her jacket. "I think we've pretty much played out the vampire puns at this point," she said.

"Speak for yourself," Javier replied, holding the door for her. "I've got a whole list I've been saving for the right moment."

As they headed down the empty corridor toward the elevators, Addison felt the familiar mix of anticipation and dread that came with closing in on a suspect. They had a name, a face, a history that lined up with their theory. Matthew Thorne made perfect sense on paper. Still, experience had taught her that the most coherent theories often fractured when confronted with reality. Carl Winters had seemed like the perfect suspect too, until the third murder had proven otherwise.

The elevator doors closed, and Addison checked her watch: 4:42 AM. Most of Seattle was still asleep, including, hopefully, Matthew Thorne. If they moved quickly, they could be at his address before he left for work—assuming he was going to work today, assuming he hadn't already fled…assuming they weren't completely wrong about him.

As they stepped out into the pre-dawn darkness of the parking garage, Addison felt a second wind coming on. The exhaustion that had overcome her earlier had receded, replaced by the sharp focus that always accompanied the final stages of a hunt. That, and an abundance of coffee, as always.

Whether Thorne was their killer or just another false lead, they were one step closer to the truth. One step closer to stopping the bloodless murders that were starting to cast a shadow over Seattle.

And right now, as the sun continued to make its way to their part of the world, that was enough to keep her moving forward.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Dawn broke grudgingly over Seattle as Addison and Javier pulled up to the apartment complex in Fremont. The sun was not yet visible, but there was the faintest purple smudge along the horizon as Javier parked the car in front of Matthew Thorne’s apartment building. The building was nothing special—a three-story brick structure with weathered balconies and peeling trim that spoke of management just doing enough to keep the place standing and looking decent for the neighborhood, but not thriving. Morning mist clung to the ground, turning the streetlights into hazy orbs that did little to dispel the pre-morning gloom.

Addison blinked hard as she stepped out of the car, willing her brain to stay alert. While she was still feeling the buzz of her second wind, there were parts of her body that seemed to have not gotten the memo; for instance, her limbs felt like they were moving through molasses. She'd managed perhaps an hour of actual sleep in the conference room during her ill-timed nap…hardly enough to keep a person functional.

"You alright?" Javier asked, noticing her stifle a yawn.

"Just peachy," she replied. "Nothing a gallon of coffee and about twelve hours of sleep won't fix when this is all over."

They made their way through the front entrance, which was secured by a keypad system but had a door that didn't quite latch properly. Javier gave it a gentle tug, and it swung open.

"Security at its finest," he muttered with a shrug.

The interior hallway smelled of old carpet and someone's attempt to mask it with air freshener—a surprisingly not-unpleasant combination of synthetic pine and decades of tenant history. Flickering fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly glow that only amplified Addison's fatigue.

According to the records they’d gotten from the database, Matthew Thorne lived in apartment 217. They took the narrow stairwell up to the second floor, their footsteps echoing in the early morning quiet. Most of the building's residents were likely still asleep. Only the distant sound of a shower running and a television playing softly behind one door indicated any signs of life.

Apartment 217 was at the end of the hallway. A plain door with peeling navy paint and a tarnished brass number. No welcome mat, no decorations. Nothing to suggest anything about the person who lived inside.

Javier knocked three times, firmly. They waited but got no response. He knocked again, louder this time. Addison leaned against the wall opposite the door, figuring that at this hour, it made sense that someone wouldn’t come directly to the door.

On the third round of knocking, they finally heard movement inside—a thump, followed by muttered cursing.

The door swung open to reveal a disheveled man in wrinkled pajama pants and a faded t-shirt. Matthew Thorne looked like he'd been dragged from deep sleep, his hair sticking up at odd angles and pillow creases still visible on one cheek. He squinted at them, irritation evident in his narrowed eyes.

"What the hell?" he demanded, voice rough with sleep. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Mr. Thorne?" Javier asked, his tone professional but firm.

"Yeah. Who's asking?"

Javier held up his badge. "Special Agent Esposito, FBI. This is Special Agent Shine."

The transformation in Thorne's demeanor was immediate. The irritation drained from his face, replaced by visible shock. His eyes widened, and he took an instinctive half-step back. He blinked rapidly as if trying to make himself wake up from some sort of weird dream.

"FBI?" he repeated. He didn’t seem fearful, Addison noted. Just genuinely surprised.

"May we come in?" she asked, pushing herself off the wall with effort.

Thorne hesitated only briefly before nodding. "Uh, sure. Just... it's a bit of a mess. I wasn't expecting company…and certainly not this early."

He stepped aside to let them enter. The apartment was small but surprisingly tidy, considering they'd just pulled him from bed. Simple IKEA furniture, walls painted a neutral beige, minimal decorations—just a few framed photos and a movie poster for The Thing that had been carefully mounted rather than taped (which garnered a quick flash of appreciation from Addison). The place had the feel of someone who lived alone and kept things functional rather than fashionable.

"This way," Thorne said, leading them toward the kitchen. "I can make coffee if you want."

"That would be great," Addison said, the prospect of caffeine momentarily lifting her spirits.

The kitchen was equally unassuming—white appliances, laminate countertops, a small table with three chairs. Everything was clean, with dishes drying in a rack beside the sink. Thorne gestured for them to sit as he moved to the coffee maker.

"What's this about?" he asked, his back to them as he measured grounds into a filter.

Addison took the lead. "We're investigating a series of homicides in the Seattle area. Three victims so far."

"Homicides?" Thorne turned, coffee scoop still in hand. "What does that have to do with me?"

"The victims were completely drained of blood," Addison continued, watching his reaction closely. "Exsanguinated while still alive, with no visible trauma except for a single needle mark. Extremely precise work, performed by someone with medical training."

Something flickered across Thorne's face—recognition, concern, nervousness—gone almost as quickly as it appeared. His hand tightened around the coffee scoop.

"And you're here because...?" he asked, though the slight waver in his voice suggested he already knew.

"Given your troubles in the past, surely you understand why we might find it necessary to pay you a visit," Addison said evenly.

Thorne set the scoop down and turned to face them fully, folding his arms across his chest. A defensive posture, but not an aggressive one.

"You mean because I got fired for taking blood from the hospital," he said flatly. "That's why I'm a suspect in multiple murders?"

"It's a relevant connection," Javier pointed out.

Thorne's expression shifted from nervous to mildly offended. For the first time since they’d arrived, Addison saw actual worry in his eyes. "Yeah, I suppose I can see that," he admitted. "But I didn't kill anyone. I've never hurt anyone in my life."

The coffee maker burbled behind him, filling the kitchen with its aroma. Thorne turned to retrieve three mugs from a cabinet, movements stiff with tension.

"Why did you take the blood, Mr. Thorne?" Javier asked. “In the past.”

Thorne set the mugs on the counter with more force than necessary. When he turned back, his eyes were shining and his mouth and drawn tight.

"For my sister," he said, voice tight with emotion. "Eliza has a rare blood disorder—paroxysmal nocturnal hemoglobinuria. Her body destroys her own red blood cells. She needed regular transfusions, but her insurance kept denying her claims, calling them 'experimental' or 'not medically necessary.'"

He poured coffee into the mugs with hands that trembled slightly. "Do you know what it's like to watch someone you love just... waste away because some insurance adjuster decided her life wasn't worth the cost of treatment?"

"That must have been difficult," Addison said.

Thorne nodded, bringing the mugs to the table. "I only stole blood twice," he continued. "And I never even ended up using it. Her insurance finally started cooperating after my parents hired a lawyer to threaten legal action."

"So what happened to the blood you took?" Javier asked.

"I disposed of it properly. I'm not an idiot—I wouldn't risk contamination or improper storage. I may have stolen it, but I'm still a medical professional. It's one of the worst decisions I ever made, but I…well, having to choose between my sister's life and my career wasn't a hard decision."

Both agents let the weight of this revelation have its moment as Thorne leaned against the counter, sipping slowly from his own coffee. But after a few seconds, Javier pushed the investigation forward.

"Where were you last night between ten and two?" he asked.

Thorne blinked at the sudden shift. "Last night? I was here. Alone."

"What about two nights ago?"

"Tuesday? I was at trivia night at Brouwer's Pub until about eleven.”

“And after eleven?”

“After eleven, I came home."

"Can anyone verify that?"

"The whole trivia team—five other people. We placed third." He pulled out his phone and showed them a photo from the night, a group of people holding up a gift certificate. Thorne was standing in the center, grinning.

"And four nights ago? Sunday night?" Javier pressed.

Thorne's confidence faltered slightly. "Sunday I was here. Watching the Sonics game. Ordered pizza from Pagliacci's around 7."

"Delivery or pickup?" Addison asked.

"Delivery. I can show you the receipt in the app."

"That still leaves plenty of time afterward," Javier noted.

"I didn't kill anyone," Thorne insisted, leaning forward, hands gripping his coffee mug. "Look, I made a mistake two years ago. I was desperate, and I did something stupid to try to help my sister. But I'm not a murderer."

Addison studied him carefully. His alibi for Tuesday night seemed solid and easily verifiable. Sunday was weaker but still partially checkable. And his demeanor—the genuine surprise at their arrival, the lack of the typical tells she'd come to recognize in guilty suspects—all suggested he was telling the truth.

"We'll need to verify your alibis," she said.

"I understand. Check whatever you need to." Thorne ran a hand through his still-disheveled hair. "And if there's anything I can do to help, let me know. If someone is out there killing people and taking their blood like that…complete exsanguination —I mean, Jesus, that's horrific. What kind of messed up Frankenstein research is this?"

Something about his phrasing caught Addison's attention. A missing puzzle piece clicked into place in her exhausted mind.

"Your sister's condition," she said slowly. "You said she needed regular transfusions because her body was destroying her red blood cells?"

Thorne nodded. "PNH is brutal. Without treatment, the survival rate is terrible."

Addison nodded. She had heard of the condition before but knew very little about it. "And the treatment is essentially replacing the destroyed blood with fresh supplies," Addison continued, the wheels turning in her mind.

"That's the basic idea, yeah. Though now she's on eculizumab, which stops the destruction process. It's incredibly expensive, which is why the insurance fought it."

Addison exchanged a glance with Javier, who seemed to have caught onto the same train of thought…or so she hoped.

"Mr. Thorne," she said, "do you know of any other blood disorders that might require regular, large-volume transfusions? Particularly ones that might be difficult to treat through conventional medical channels?"

Thorne thought for a moment. "There are several. Aplastic anemia, severe thalassemia, sickle cell in crisis. Some leukemias require extensive transfusion support." He paused, realization dawning. "Do you think your killer—or maybe someone the killer is trying to help—has a blood disorder?"

"It would explain the volume," Addison said. "And the specific targeting."

"All three victims were O-negative," Javier added. "Universal donors." Both Addison and Javier studied Thorne closely as they said this, looking for any tells. Addison saw none, only that he was thinking deeply…legitimately trying to help them figure out the puzzle. His expression shifted from confusion to grim understanding.

"Someone who believes transfusing themselves with so-called clean blood will cure their condition," he murmured. "That's... that's not how it works. At all. Transfusions are supportive care, not curative."

"Unless they believe otherwise," Addison said. "Desperation can lead to some twisted logic." She almost said: As you know yourself, but kept it quiet.

"And if they're getting worse," Javier said, "they might escalate. Take more blood, more frequently." Addison could tell he wasn’t speaking to Thorne now, but her, working the problem out verbally.

The pieces were falling into place now. Not a black-market scheme, not a collector—but someone fighting a losing battle against their own body, convinced that harvesting entire humans' worth of blood would save them. Or someone else.

Addison stood, suddenly energized despite her fatigue. She took one last gulp of the coffee whish she only then noticed was actually quite good. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Thorne. We'll be in touch to verify your alibis, but I think you've just helped us more than you realize."

They left Thorne looking confused but relieved at his kitchen table. He started moving as if he thought it might be a good idea to escort them but ended up standing his ground. As they made their way back down to the lobby, Javier voiced what they were both thinking.

"If our killer has a blood disorder that's getting worse..."

"Then they're running out of time," Addison finished. "And they're going to need more blood soon. We need to compile a list of everyone in the Seattle medical system with severe blood disorders, particularly anyone who might have been denied treatment or isn't responding to conventional therapies."

"That's going to be a hell of a task without court orders for medical records," Javier pointed out as they got into the car.

"Then we start with what we can access," Addison said, her mind racing ahead. "Medical professionals diagnosed with blood disorders—they'd have the knowledge and the access."

They had a theory now, a motive that made horrific sense. Someone watching their own body betray them, desperate enough to believe that taking every drop of blood from carefully selected victims would somehow save them. The more Addison thought about it, the more the evidence aligned.

The precision of the extractions. The care taken with the bodies. The complete removal of blood without a drop wasted or spilled. This wasn't just murder—it was self-preservation, twisted by desperation and fear.

And if their killer's condition was deteriorating, they wouldn't wait long before striking again.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Seattle field office's second-floor conference room had transformed into a war zone of paperwork, coffee cups, and frayed nerves. Every available surface was covered with printouts, hastily scribbled notes, and open laptops. Agents hunched over phones, voices blending into a constant murmur that rose and fell like ocean waves. It was a chaotic scene in which Addison could feel both encouragement and desperation in equal measure.

In the center of it all, Addison stood before a whiteboard that had been wheeled in, staring at the timeline she'd constructed. Three victims in six days. The acceleration was unmistakable. If their theory was correct, their killer was running out of time—and patience. They’d spent the last half an hour or so assembling a team to help pull together all health network resources within three counties, trying to find a specific match that lined up with the profile they’d put together for their killer.

"I've got Methodist's network administrator on the line," a tall agent by the name of Ramos called from the corner, where she'd set up a makeshift phone bank. "But they're saying they need a formal warrant before they can search medical records for blood disorders."

"Tell them we'll have it within the hour," Javier replied, not looking up from his laptop. "Judge Hernandez already approved the language. We're just waiting on the clerk."

Addison pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting back a headache that threatened to bloom behind her eyes. Sleep deprivation was becoming a real problem, but she couldn't afford to rest. Not with the clock ticking so loudly.

"St. Elizabeth's is a no-go without the warrant too," Agent Kramer announced, hanging up his phone with a frustrated sigh. "Legal's being extra cautious after that HIPAA lawsuit last year."

SAIC Loomis paced the length of the conference table, her usual immaculate appearance slightly disheveled after hours of work. The fact that she'd stayed with them, rolling up her sleeves and making calls alongside her agents, spoke volumes about the urgency of the case. It also reminded Addison just how privileged she was to work with such a supervisor.

"What about university hospitals?" Loomis asked. "Any luck there?"

"University Medical says they can check employee health records without specific patient information," Javier said. "But they need time to compile the list. HR has to cross-reference with medical leave requests. This is…well, it’s turning out to involve a lot more juggling than we anticipated."

"Better than nothing," Addison muttered, updating the whiteboard with a fresh column listing potential resources. Despite the chaos, there was something almost beautiful about the way everyone had come together—field agents, analysts, even admin staff had been pulled in to help. The normally rigid hierarchy of the office had temporarily dissolved in the face of this urgent hunt.

"Could be a military connection," suggested Kramer, leaning back in his chair. "VA hospitals have different record systems. Probably different protocols to get to the blood, too. Maybe our guy picked up a blood disorder overseas?"

"Good thought," Loomis said, nodding appreciatively. "Get Veterans Affairs on the line. And someone check with Madigan at Joint Base Lewis-McChord."

Addison turned back to the victim profiles she'd taped to the wall. Three victims, all universal donors. Two connected through Dr. Wright's study, the third seemingly random—though they now knew all three shared the same O-negative blood type. She traced the timeline with her finger, feeling the acceleration in her gut.

"He's getting desperate," she said, half to herself. "The timeframe between Sullivan and Palmer was three days. Between Palmer and Martinez, less than two."

"Which means we might have less than twenty-four hours before he strikes again," Javier finished her thought, coming to stand beside her.

"If he follows the pattern," Addison agreed. "But his condition could be deteriorating faster than we realize. He might not even have twenty-four hours to wait." She felt the urge to drop an F-bomb, a rarity for her, but the second wind was coming to its crashing close and she was feeling the deadly mix of exhaustion and defeat looming large.

The door swung open, and a junior agent entered with a cardboard tray of fresh coffee. The collective sigh of relief was almost comical.

"Bless you," Addison said, grabbing a cup. "You're officially my favorite person today."

"Second favorite," Javier corrected, taking his own cup. "First place is reserved for whoever identifies our killer."

That earned a tired laugh from the room. These moments of levity were essential, Addison knew. They kept the team functioning despite the pressure—a thin thread that connected everyone to something other than the need to find this killer.

"Swedish Medical just got back to me," Ramos announced. "They've got three doctors currently on medical leave for blood-related issues, but two are women and one is over seventy. Doesn't match our profile."

"Cross them off," Addison said, sipping the scalding coffee gratefully. "But get their names anyway. I want to rule them out completely."

By 8:50 AM, they'd been at it for three hours, and the initial adrenaline was wearing thin. The walls of the conference room seemed to be closing in, and the once-promising leads had dwindled to dead ends and bureaucratic roadblocks. Everyone's faces showed the strain—eyes red-rimmed, shoulders slumped, voices growing hoarse from hours on the phone.

"This isn't working," Loomis said finally, perching on the edge of the table. It was a rare admission of frustration from the normally stoic SAIC. "We're assuming our killer has an official diagnosis on record. What if we're wrong about that?"

Addison turned to face her, eyebrows raised. "What are you thinking?"

"Self-diagnosis," Loomis suggested. "I think you're right in thinking there's a medical history here. But what if this is a medical professional who believes they have a blood disorder but hasn't sought formal treatment? Or maybe Munchausen's—someone who's convinced themselves they're sick when they're not."

"That would explain why we're not finding anything in medical records," Javier said slowly, the idea taking hold. "And it fits with the medical knowledge. Someone who works in the field might think they know better than traditional doctors."

"It also explains the desperation," Addison added, mind racing. "If they've convinced themselves only these specific blood transfusions will save them, no amount of medical advice to the contrary would matter."

The theory settled over the room like a flood. If their killer had self-diagnosed, or worse, was suffering from a delusional disorder that made them believe they were dying of a blood condition, their search parameters had been all wrong from the start.

"So we're looking for someone with medical training who believes they have a blood disorder, but may not have an official diagnosis," Addison summarized, turning back to the whiteboard and adding this new angle in red marker. "Someone with access to patient records to identify universal donors with specific antibody profiles. Someone becoming increasingly desperate as their perceived condition worsens."

"That's a difficult profile to search for," Loomis said with a frown. "We can't exactly query databases for 'delusional medical professionals.'"

"No," Addison agreed, "but we can look for behavioral indicators. Sudden changes in work performance. Unexplained absences. Unusual interest in specific patient blood types or antibody research."

The energy in the room shifted as new tasks were assigned and fresh angles pursued. It wasn't exactly hope—they were too experienced for that—but it was something close. A renewed sense of purpose, at least.

As the activity ramped up again, Addison felt a nagging thought at the edge of her mind. Something about Wright's research, about the connection between their first two victims. She glanced at her watch—nearly noon. They'd been at this for over six hours now and her brain felt like pudding sloshing around in her head.

"I need some air," she told Javier. "And…maybe to make a call."

He nodded, understanding in his eyes. They'd been partners long enough that he recognized when she needed space to process. “You okay?”

“I think so. I will be.”

Javier nodded. "Take your time. We'll keep at it."

Addison slipped out of the conference room, phone already in hand, and made her way to a quiet corner of the hallway. She scrolled through her contacts until she found Wright's number, saved after their first meeting. Taking a deep breath, she tapped the call button. When he answered and she heard his voice rather than a receptionist’s or assistant’s, she was impressed; he’d actually given her his direct cell number.

He answered on the third ring. "Dr. Wright speaking."

"Doctor, it's Special Agent Shine from the FBI." She kept her voice neutral, professional…trying not to sound as tired as she felt.

"Agent Shine." He paused and she could practically hear the gears in his mind shifting from whatever task he’d been at when she called to focusing on their conversation. "Have you made progress in the investigation?"

"That's actually why I'm calling," she said. "There’s regrettably been a third victim. But frankly, that’s not even what I need to speak with you about. When Agent Esposito and I were in your office, I asked about former members who may have worked for you. You never gave us a name, but we uncovered one on our own…someone who had, at one time, assisted with your research. Carl Winters."

Another pause, longer this time. When Wright spoke again, his voice had chilled several degrees. "What about him?"

"You failed to mention him at all, for starters. And that resulted in about another day that went by without us knowing about it him. And had you mentioned hi, I assume you may have also mentioned the red flags of his past," Addison said, direct but not accusatory. "Given his connection to your research and his unusual interest in blood samples, that seems like a significant omission. I purposeful one. And though we have already spoke to him and it seems he is not the man we’re looking for, it does make me wonder what other things you’re keeping from us. So, please…let’s start with Wright and why you neglected to tell us about his past.”

Wright sighed heavily into the phone. "After the way things ended with his employment, I've done my best to distance myself—and my department—from him entirely."

"Even when we're investigating murders related to your research?"

"Especially then." Wright's voice grew defensive. "Look, Winters has his problems—serious ones, if you want my candid opinion—but I know without a doubt he's no killer. I didn't mention him when you came around because he isn't relevant to your investigation."

"That's not your call to make, Doctor." Addison kept her tone even despite her frustration. "We need all the information to do our jobs effectively."

"You're right," Wright admitted after a moment. "And I apologize. But I have been trying to distance myself from him with such purpose that it's become almost second nature. I assure you…if I thought he was capable of this sort of evil, I would have told you about him."

"Dr. Wright, we're currently investigating a very specific angle," Addison said, leaning against the wall. "We believe our killer may have a blood disorder—diagnosed or self-perceived—and is using these transfusions as some sort of treatment. I need you to be completely honest with me. Is there anyone in your professional circle—someone with medical knowledge and access to patient records—who might be suffering from a blood disorder or who has shown unusual interest in blood-related research? Anyone who might have become desperate enough to do something like this?"

She heard the emotion in his voice when he replied seconds later, taking a bit of time to consider the question. "Agent Shine, I've been asking myself the same question since you first visited my office. I've gone through mental lists of colleagues, students, even patients. I've racked my brain trying to think of anyone who fits that profile, and I've come up empty."

Addison believed him. The genuine distress in his voice was hard to fake, especially over the phone.

"If you think of anything—anything at all—call me immediately," she said. "No matter how small or seemingly insignificant."

"Of course," Wright promised. "I want these killings stopped as badly as you do." He paused, then added, "I'm sorry, but I have a patient waiting. Is there anything else I can help with?"

"Not right now. Thank you for your time, Doctor."

Addison ended the call and stood in the hallway for a long moment. Another dead end. Wright had been their strongest connection to the first two victims, and if he couldn't think of a potential suspect now that the victims had gone beyond his list, they were back to square one.

The weight of frustration pressed down on her as she headed back toward the conference room. They were running out of options, and more importantly, running out of time. Somewhere in Seattle, a killer was preparing for their next victim, and Addison had no idea how to stop them. She took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the conference room, rejoining the frantic search that had yielded nothing but dead ends so far. The clock continued to tick, and Addison was painfully aware that with each passing hour, they were one step closer to finding another bloodless body that would only present more questions.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The reflection in the bathroom mirror told a very dark truth—a truth he’d refused to see for far too long but was now plainly visible. Sallow skin stretched thin over prominent cheekbones. Dark circles that no amount of sleep could erase. Eyes that had once been sharp and observant now clouded with a yellowish tinge. His white coat—once a symbol of authority and healing—now hung loosely from shoulders that seemed to shrink by the day.

He braced himself against the sink, willing the tremor in his hands to subside. The shaking was getting worse. Soon, it would be noticeable to others. Questions would be asked. Concerns would be voiced. His carefully constructed façade would crumble, and with it, any chance of finding a cure on his own terms.

As recently as four months ago, he had still believed in the system. In tests and trials, in protocols and peer reviews. He'd placed his faith in colleagues who spoke of "managing expectations" and "palliative approaches." They didn't understand. How could they? None of them faced the horrifying reality of watching their own body slowly destroy itself from within.

His first self-diagnosis had been dismissed by his peers. "Hypochondria," they'd said. "Stress." "Maybe you should talk to someone." The patronizing smiles, the gentle suggestions that perhaps his symptoms were psychosomatic. Even when the initial blood work came back with alarming markers, they'd insisted on more tests, more waiting, more precious time wasted while his condition deteriorated.

He turned away from the mirror, unable to bear his own reflection any longer. The bathroom—once spotless and organized—now resembled a medical supply closet. IV stands, collection bags, tubing, sterilization equipment, specimen containers. Everything he needed to continue his treatment had been carefully acquired over the past months, piece by piece, to avoid suspicion. There was some here, just because it felt cleaner somehow to work in the bathroom. But most of the equipment and blood supply was in the makeshift lab he’d created in his basement. That’s where he headed now, in a sort of desperation.

He'd converted the space that previous owners had used as a recreation room into something far more vital. The centrifuge hummed quietly in the corner, separating the components of Martinez's blood—his third failure.

He descended the stairs slowly, one hand gripping the rail to steady himself. The room was cool, kept at a perfect thirty-nine degrees Fahrenheit. Ideal conditions for preserving blood products. The walls were lined with shelving units containing neatly labeled vials and bags. Palmer. Sullivan. Martinez. So much effort. So much hope. So much disappointment.

The tremor in his right hand intensified as he reached for the latest test results. The paper rattled audibly in his grip. Negative. Again. Martinez's blood, like the others, had failed to provide the miracle he sought. The antibodies were present but not in the configuration he needed. Not powerful enough to combat what was happening inside him.

He sank into the chair at his workstation, surrounded by the fruits of his desperation. The centrifuge clicked off, its cycle complete. Another batch processed, another hope dashed. Three victims now. Three lives extinguished to fuel his survival. And still, he deteriorated.

The logical part of his brain—the part trained through years of medical education—understood that what he was doing defied established science. But logic had given way to something more primal. Survival. The fundamental drive that underpinned all living things. The urge that separated those who would fight from those who would surrender. Besides, wasn’t it true that many of the most promising scientific and medical breakthroughs had come from those who often worked just outside of the edge of what was accepted?

His gaze fell on the folder of photocopies he’d made and then stolen from Wright's office. The paperwork was spread across the desk, annotated with his own frantic notes. Wright was so close to the answer but too cautious, too bound by ethics and protocols to take the necessary steps. Some of his results were extraordinary. Complete remission of symptoms after targeted transfusions from specially selected donors. Antibody profiles that demonstrated exceptional binding properties. Genuine breakthroughs obscured by Wright's methodical pace and refusal to see the bigger picture.

He pulled the file closer, flipping through the pages with trembling fingers. Wright had documented everything meticulously—antibody profiles, response rates, rejection factors. The research showed remarkable results in patients with certain blood disorders similar to his own. Not just temporary relief but significant improvement. In some cases, almost complete remission of symptoms.

The answer had been there all along, hidden in Wright's cautious methodology. It wasn't just about which blood to use—it was about how to use it. He'd been taking the blood in its entirety, believing volume was the answer. More would be better. Overwhelming his failing system with healthy replacements would tip the balance. But Wright's research suggested something different. Something more elegant.

It wasn't just about replacing his tainted blood with clean supply. It was about transformation. Integration. Rebirth.

He made his way over to the refrigeration unit in the corner. Inside, neatly arranged bags of O-negative blood—harvested from his victims—waited for his next infusion. He'd been using them sparingly, knowing each transfusion provided only temporary relief. Hours of respite followed by the inevitable decline. Like an addict chasing a diminishing high, he needed more each time to achieve the same effect.

But Wright's research changed everything. The most successful cases involved direct transfusions. Immediate. No storage, no processing. A living donor to a living recipient. The antibodies transferred in their most viable state.

He understood now why his previous attempts had failed. Dead men's blood, no matter how carefully extracted and preserved, couldn't provide what he needed. He required a direct connection. A living transfer from the source of salvation to his deteriorating body.

His hands shook violently as he reached for his medical journal, nearly knocking over a rack of test tubes. The lack of control in his own muscles terrified him. The progression was accelerating. What had begun as occasional tremors now manifested as constant instability. Soon, he wouldn't be able to perform even basic procedures. His ability to save himself would be compromised.

He had to act quickly.

He flipped open the journal to a fresh page, forcing his trembling hand to cooperate as he recorded his observations. The pen scratched erratically across the paper, his once-precise handwriting now a jagged scrawl.

Martinez - Full exsanguination completed at 19:17. O-neg, antibody profile C-137. Transfusion initiated at 03:45. No improvement in tremors. Fatigue levels unchanged. Yellow sclera advancing. Platelet count continuing to decrease.

Conclusion: Insufficient antibody markers despite O-neg compatibility. Storage may have degraded critical factors.

New approach required. Wright's research suggests direct transfusion maintains antibody viability. Donor must remain alive during process for maximum efficacy.

Target identified. Preparation underway. This will be the final procedure.

It hurt to write that final line. But he did feel as if this next attempt failed, he wouldn’t get another chance. He simply didn’t have enough time.

He closed the journal and reached for another file—one from Wright’s records that he’d studied over and over again. Unlike his previous victims, this target had been selected not just for blood type but for a specific antibody configuration that Wright's research indicated was optimal for his condition. The perfect match. A miracle waiting to be harvested.

But he had no name. Wright had left it out.

He steadied himself against the wall as a wave of dizziness threatened to overwhelm him. These episodes were becoming more frequent, more intense. The clock was ticking. His body was failing. But soon, very soon, he would be better.

In the corner of the basement lab, a modified transfusion setup waited. Not the standard equipment he'd used to drain his previous victims, but something more specialized. A direct line from donor to recipient, designed to transfer living blood with all its complex factors intact. He'd assembled it carefully, testing each component, ensuring nothing would go wrong during the critical procedure.

He moved to the storage area where he kept his supplies, pulling out fresh butterfly needles, tubing, antiseptic wipes, and sedatives. The midazolam would keep his target compliant but conscious—their heart needed to pump naturally for the transfusion to work optimally. He calculated the dosage carefully, accounting for the target's weight and medical history. Precision was essential.

As he packed the equipment into a black medical bag, his thoughts turned to his previous victims. Palmer, Sullivan, Martinez. Their faces floated in his memory, peaceful in their final moments. He hadn't wanted to hurt them. Their deaths were regrettable necessities. Sacrifices for a greater purpose. He'd ensured they felt no pain, treated their bodies with respect, honored their involuntary contribution to his survival. Yes, there was a bit of selfishness to it; he was, after all, trying to save his own life. But if he was able to do that, just think of all of the other lives he could save when it was proven that this could work.

But they had failed him. Their blood, though carefully harvested, hadn't contained the specific antibody configuration he needed. Each disappointment had pushed him closer to desperation, closer to the brink where he now stood, trembling and weak.

This time would be different. Tonight's target held the secret…the cure.

He zipped the bag closed and made his way back to the bathroom to prepare himself. The surgical scrubs were clean and neatly folded. The mask and cap would conceal his identity, though at this point, concealment seemed almost irrelevant. Either this final attempt would succeed, restoring him to health and giving him a chance to disappear, to start fresh with his newly purified system—or it would fail, and nothing would matter anymore.

But before he could do anything, he needed to take just one more trip to Dr. Wright’s office. He needed the name that went with the fascinating results in the reports. And he knew exactly what he needed to do to get it.

Before making his way out into the day, he looked at himself in the mirror one last time and hardly recognize the man looking back at him.

But that was good. It made what he had to do easier.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Thomas Wright checked his watch for the third time in as many minutes. It was only 3:45. He wasn’t sure how that was possible; today had felt like it would never end, stretching on forever in a tidal wave of anxiety. But he figured that it was late enough to call it a day without triggering the usual guilt that accompanied leaving before sunset. He'd cleared his afternoon schedule, canceling a follow-up appointment that wasn't critical. Had it been a more pressing appointment, he wouldn’t have even thought of leaving early. But when he’d had his assistant make the call, she reported that the patient had sounded relieved, actually—probably as eager to avoid the hospital as Wright was to escape it today.

His mind hadn't stopped churning since Agent Shine had called him. More to the point, his mind had been on overdrive ever since she’d visited the first time with her partner. The crimes that were being committed with his passions and career tied into the center…it was terrible. And the call she’d made to him earlier in the day continued to poke and prod at his research and his patients. Worse, he truly wished he could be of some help, but there was not a single name or face that came to mind.

Wright locked his office door and pocketed the keys with hands that weren't quite steady. The corridors of the hematology department were quiet; most staff were either in the labs or had stepped out for late lunches. He nodded to a passing resident who barely registered his presence, too focused on the chart in her hands.

Names and faces of colleagues tumbled through his mind as he rode the elevator down to the ground floor. Was it possible that someone he knew was responsible? Someone with access to his research, to his patient records? Someone with the expertise to execute such meticulous exsanguinations? Surely the list of names with that sort of skill was short, right? If so, maybe he could help…

The thought made his stomach turn. His entire career had been devoted to saving lives, to understanding the intricate mysteries of human blood. To think that someone might be perverting that knowledge—

He shook his head as he pushed through the rear exit into the employee parking lot. The area was a private sanctuary, hidden from the main thoroughfare by a row of meticulously maintained shrubs and several old oak trees that had somehow survived Seattle's endless development. The trees cast long shadows across the asphalt, creating pools of darkness that seemed to shift as clouds skittered across the afternoon sky.

Dr. Wright fumbled for his key fob, pressing the unlock button and hearing the reassuring chirp of his Volvo in response. His thoughts were still tangled in possibilities. Should he have told Agent Shine about the anomalies in his research? About the unexpected success with Maria Delgado's treatment? It didn't seem relevant—her case was entirely different from the antibody study that had connected Palmer and Sullivan.

His fingers closed around the door handle, and he pulled. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he never saw the figure that rushed him from between the parked cars.

The impact drove the breath from his lungs as his body slammed against the car's frame. His head cracked against the edge of the roof, sending splinters of pain radiating through his skull. For a moment, the world went gray at the edges, threatening to dissolve entirely. He would have collapsed if not for the hands gripping his jacket, pinning him against the car with surprising strength. As his vision swam back into focus, he found himself staring into a face that tugged at the edges of his memory. Someone familiar, but out of context. Someone—

He nearly asked what this person wanted, but the words died as something sharp pressed against the base of his neck.

"Don't move." The man adjusted his grip, and Wright felt the unmistakable prick of a needle against his carotid. "This is full of household bleach,” the attacker said. One push, and it destroys every red blood cell in your circulatory system. Death in under two minutes. Very messy. Very painful. But I bet you already know that."

Wright went utterly still, fear cascading through him in icy waves. The face before him sharpened into focus—gaunt, with deep shadows beneath fevered eyes. The familiarity crystallized. He could not recall the man’s first name, but he knew his last name was Holbrook.

"So you do remember. I wasn't sure if I'd made an impression." The needle pressed deeper, not quite breaking the skin. "I need a name, Wright.”

"What name?" Wright managed, his voice barely audible. "What are you talking about?" His heart was slamming against his ribs, and the whack he'd taken against the roof still had his vision acting strange. But he knew he had to focus on the madman with the syringe or things were going to get ever worse very quickly.

Holbrook's eyes narrowed, and Wright noticed that there was something wrong with them. Something beyond the obvious rage and desperation. They had a yellowish tinge, the whites shot through with broken capillaries. The skin around them was ashen, almost gray.

"Don't play stupid. Not now." Holbrook's free hand twisted Wright's lab coat tighter. "There's a test subject in your records... an almost complete eradication of a blood disorder that—"

The sound of a door opening cut through the air. Wright glanced sideways to see Janet Greenwald, one of the lab technicians, stepping out into the parking lot. She was barely even watching where she was going, her head down as she rummaged through her purse.

"Make a sound, try to signal her, and I inject you," Holbrook hissed, pressing the needle hard enough that Wright felt a sharp burn as it just barely penetrated the skin. "She'll find your body, but not in time to save you."

Wright had to force himself to not scream out for help…or, for that matter, to break down in tears in front of this madman. Janet was walking in their direction, still distracted by whatever she was searching for in her bag. Any second now, she'd look up and—

Her head lifted, and her steps faltered. Even from thirty feet away, Wright could see her eyes widen as she processed the scene before her—two men by a car, one clearly restraining the other.

"Hey!" she called, hand already diving into her purse, likely for her phone.

Holbrook cursed, and Wright felt the needle slide deeper into his neck. Panic exploded through his system. He couldn’t due like this. Not in a parking lot with bleach in his veins.

"Wait!" Wright gasped. "I'll tell you. Just—don't."

The needle paused its invasion. Holbrook's eyes bore into his, calculating. "The name. Now."

Wright's throat constricted around the words. Every fiber of his being screamed against the betrayal, against the weakness. But the needle was in his neck, and Janet was too far away, and he didn't want to die.

"Maria Delgado," he whispered, shame burning hotter than fear. "It's Maria Delgado."

Something like triumph flashed across Holbrook's face. The needle slid out, leaving a stinging point of pain, and Wright felt a moment of dizzying relief.

Then Holbrook's fist connected with his face.

The blow caught Wright just below his eye. His head snapped back, colliding with the car again, and his legs folded. He hit the asphalt hard, tasting blood where his teeth had cut into his inner cheek. Through blurred vision, he saw Holbrook already running, disappearing between the rows of cars toward the street beyond the parking lot's edge.

Wright struggled to his knees, spitting blood onto the pavement. Shame filled him. Had he essentially just killed an innocent woman? His ears rang, and his vision pulsed with the beating of his heart. Janet was beside him now, her face a mask of concern as she helped steady him.

"Dr. Wright! Are you okay?”

“Yes, I—”

“Who was that?” she asked, and she seemed to be near tears herself. “Should I call security?"

The words seemed to come from very far away. Wright touched his bleeding mouth, then fumbled for his phone. Not security. Not the police. They would take too long, ask too many questions.

"Yes, but I fear I just put a woman's life in danger," he said, his voice sounding strange and disconnected to his own ears.

His fingers moved almost of their own accord, scrolling through his recent calls. There it was—the number Agent Shine had called from. He pressed it, raising the phone to his ear as Janet hovered nearby, still asking questions he couldn't process.

He looked in the direction he thought his attacker had escaped, but he was already gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Addison stared at the array of documents spread across the conference room table, her eyes burning from hours of scanning medical records, staff listings, and patient files. She massaged her temples, trying to ward off the headache that had been threatening since mid-afternoon. She'd lost track of how much coffee she'd consumed, but she felt the almost uneasy twinge of it spiking through her veins. Javier sat across from her, phone pressed to his ear as he worked through yet another round of calls to hospital administrators.

Loomis paced at the far end of the room, her usual composure fraying at the edges as the day wore on without a solid lead. The whiteboard behind her was covered with names, arrows, and question marks—a visual representation of their collective frustration.

"No," Javier was saying into the phone, "we need records going back at least five years. Yes, I understand privacy laws. That's why we're asking for redacted—" He broke off, listening, and shot Addison a look that said everything about how productive the call was going to be. She could see that he was getting very frustrated but was managing to keep that cool and calm (and handsome) exterior in place.

Three victims. Three bloodless bodies. And somehow, despite all their resources, they were still chasing ghosts.

Addison's phone buzzed against the table. She glanced at the screen, not recognizing the number. Normally, she might have let it go to voicemail, but given that the vast majority of her day had been spent asking people to call her back if they thought of anything helpful, she wasn’t about to miss a single call.

"This is Agent Shine," she answered, her voice betraying her exhaustion.

"Agent Shine." The voice on the other end was ragged, breathless…worried. "This is Dr. Wright again. I've…I’ve been attacked."

Addison straightened, instantly alert. She raised her hand and motioned for everyone to stop what they were doing. She then hit the speaker button and set the phone on the table. Everyone in the room—six in all at the moment—went still and quiet, looking at her phone. "Dr. Wright? What happened? Are you hurt?"

Javier ended his call immediately. Loomis stopped pacing and moved closer to the table.

"I'm—I'll be fine," Wright said, though his voice suggested otherwise. "He attacked me in the parking lot. Had a needle filled with bleach. Said he'd inject it right into my carotid if I didn't give him what he wanted."

"Where are you now?" Addison asked, already reaching for her notebook. "Are you safe?"

"I'm back in the hospital. Security's with me." A pause, filled with what sounded like labored breathing. "But that's not why I'm calling. He wanted a name. Someone who was involved in some of my research."

Addison exchanged glances with Javier. "The attacker. Did you recognize him?"

"I—I think so. He looked familiar. His face—I've seen him before. I'm trying to place him now, looking through old records and whatnot." Wright's voice wavered. "But Agent Shine, he made me tell him about one of my patients. He asked for a name, and I…I'm ashamed to say I feared for my life and I gave it to him."

“What’s the same, doctor?”

“Maria Delgado. I think he's going after her."

Loomis leaned forward, bracing herself on the table. "Dr. Wright, this is Special Agent in Charge Diana Loomis. Can you describe this man?"

"Medium height. Thin—almost gaunt. Dark eyes, dark hair. But there was something wrong with him. His skin had this grayish cast to it, and his eyes—they were yellow around the edges."

"Jaundice?" Addison suggested.

"Maybe. But different. Like something systemic." Wright paused, and they could hear muffled voices in the background. "I'm in my office now. My assistant is helping me go through staff records. If I saw him here, we should be able to find him."

"What can you tell us about Maria Delgado?" Javier asked, already typing the name into the database search on his laptop.

"She was part of a study I conducted last year on rare blood disorders. Not the antibody research—something different." Wright's voice grew more distant, presumably as he turned to look at something his assistant had brought. "Hold on, I think—yes, this might be him."

They waited, the silence stretching taut. Addison could feel time slipping away, each second bringing their killer—if that's who had attacked Wright—closer to his next victim.

"James Holbrook," Wright said suddenly. "Dr. James Holbrook. He's an immunologist. Spent about two days shadowing in my department several months ago. Part of a research collaborative. I never worked closely with him, but enough to remember the face."

Javier immediately switched his search to the new name while Addison kept the call on track.

"And you're certain this is the man who attacked you?" Loomis pressed.

"Almost one hundred percent certain. It all happened so fast, but—yes, I'm quite sure it was Holbrook."

Addison nervously picked up a nearby pen and started tapping it at the edge of the table. "Dr. Wright, you said he specifically asked about Maria Delgado. Can you tell us why? What made her special?"

There was a hesitation on the other end of the line. When Wright spoke again, his voice was heavy with what sounded like guilt.

"Maria Delgado was part of a study on congenital hemolytic anemia—a condition where the body destroys its own red blood cells faster than normal. Her case was particularly severe. Most patients with her specific mutation don't survive past their thirties without constant medical intervention."

"But she did," Addison prompted.

"Yes. We were testing an experimental treatment protocol—a combination of targeted immunotherapy and specialized blood transfusions. Maria's results were... remarkable. Nearly complete remission. Her blood work has been stable ever since. It was one of the most promising outcomes we'd ever seen."

Addison felt a chill run through her. "So her blood could be considered 'pure' now? Healed?"

"In layman's terms, yes. Her bone marrow is producing healthy red blood cells, her clotting factors are normal, her antibody response is excellent. It was a medical breakthrough, actually. We were preparing to publish the findings, but wanted to ensure the remission was stable."

"And Holbrook knew about this?" Javier asked.

"He must have. The case was discussed during rounds while the research team was here. It wasn't classified information…just a promising result we were continuing to monitor. I don’t know how he would have gotten the files or the information, but I—"

Loomis leaned in closer to the phone. "Dr. Wright, can you think of any reason why Holbrook would be interested in this specific patient?"

Another pause, longer this time. "I've been trying to make sense of it myself. The only thing I can think of is that he might be sick himself. It could be why he looked so odd, as I already described.”

"Could it be the same disorder as Maria Delgado?" Addison asked.

"I don't know. It could be similar, perhaps. Or he might believe it is." Wright's voice dropped. "Agent Shine, I'm a scientist. I deal in facts, in evidence. But the way this man looked at me—there was something desperate in his eyes. Something beyond rational thought."

Javier turned his laptop so Addison and Loomis could see the screen. He'd pulled up Holbrook's DMV photo—a severe-looking man with hollow cheeks and intense dark eyes. Nothing about the image suggested illness, but the photo was at least two years old.

"Do you have Maria Delgado's address, doctor?" Addison asked, already reaching for her coat.

"I can access her file." More muffled sounds as Wright presumably navigated through digital records. "Yes, here it is. 1422 Maple Lane in North Queen Anne."

Addison wrote down the address. "We'll send officers to your location, Dr. Wright. Stay where you are until they arrive."

"I'm so sorry," Wright said suddenly, his voice cracking. "I shouldn't have told him. But the needle—I thought he was going to kill me right there."

"You did what you had to do," Loomis assured him. "And you called us immediately. That was the right move."

They ended the call, and for a moment, the three of them stood in silence, processing what they'd just learned.

"Javier—" Addison began.

"Already on it." He was typing rapidly, pulling up everything he could find on James Holbrook. "No criminal record. The address is 847 Westlake Avenue North. Medical license current, employed at Northwest Immunology Associates for the past six years."

"Any red flags?" Loomis asked.

"Nothing obvious." Javier scrolled through the records. "Wait—there's a note here. Leave of absence filed at his work three months ago. Personal reasons, unspecified."

"That tracks with Wright's timeline," Addison said. "If Holbrook has a blood disorder similar to Delgado's, and he learned about her miraculous recovery..."

"He might believe her blood could cure him," Loomis finished. "Just like our theory about the earlier victims having special antibodies."

"But this is different," Addison pointed out. "The victims had naturally occurring antibodies. From what Wright said, Delgado's condition was actually cured through medical intervention. Her blood changed."

"Which makes it even more valuable to someone desperate enough to believe it could heal them," Javier said grimly.

"If this is our guy, he's accelerating," she said. "No more waiting days between victims. I guarantee you he’s going straight from Wright to Delgado."

Javier checked her weapon, then slid it back into its holster. "If that’s true, then Maria Delgado might already be in danger. We need to move."

Loomis nodded. "Go. I'll coordinate with local PD and have them meet you there. I'll also send a team to Holbrook's apartment, though I doubt he's headed there."

They rushed toward the door, the conference room's scattered papers and cold coffee cups forgotten. Behind them, the whiteboard still displayed their previous theories and dead ends. But now they had a name, a face, and a motive—a desperate man seeking a miracle cure in the blood of others.

And somewhere else within the city, Maria Delgado was going about her evening, unaware that she had become the most important person in Seattle to a man who believed her blood could save his life.

A man who had already proven he was willing to kill for it.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

James Holbrook's hands trembled on the steering wheel as he navigated the afternoon traffic. Sweat beaded along his hairline despite the chill he felt deep in his bones. The digital clock on his dashboard read 4:38 PM. How much time did he have left? Days? Hours? The doctors—the ones he'd initially consulted before deciding they were all incompetent—had given him months. But that was before the symptoms accelerated, before the yellowing of his eyes became impossible to hide, before his body began to betray him in ways his considerable medical knowledge told him were catastrophic.

1422 Maple Lane, North Queen Anne. The address burned in his mind like a beacon. He'd found it easily enough after leaving Wright crumpled in the parking lot. Hospital databases were simple to access when you had the right credentials—and Holbrook still had his login from the collaborative research project. Wright's files weren't even properly secured; the man trusted his colleagues too much. It had taken him less than ten minutes in his car, parked two blocks from the hospital, to pull up Maria Delgado's complete patient profile on his tablet.

A car horn blared as he drifted over the center line. Holbrook jerked the wheel back, his vision momentarily blurring at the edges. Focus, damn it. He couldn't afford mistakes. Not now. Not when he was so close.

The confrontation with Wright had cost him more than he'd anticipated. The adrenaline spike had sent his already compromised system into overdrive, and the crash that followed left him dizzy, nauseous. His joints ached with a deep, penetrating pain that no amount of over-the-counter medication could touch. The disease was progressing faster than even his worst projections. He had no business driving in his current state, but he also had no time to waste.

Congenital hemolytic anemia. The diagnosis had come to him gradually over the past year as he'd monitored his own declining health. It had started with fatigue he couldn't shake, then progressed to the yellowing of his eyes, the inexplicable bruising, the persistent shortness of breath. As an immunologist, he recognized the symptoms—his own red blood cells being destroyed faster than his bone marrow could replace them. His body was literally eating itself alive from the inside out.

But his case was atypical. The standard tests hadn't pinpointed it immediately—probably a rare mutation, maybe even unique. That was why the other doctors had missed it, offering their useless diagnoses and ineffective treatments. Only he had seen the truth: his immune system had turned against him, systematically destroying the very cells meant to carry oxygen throughout his body. This had plunged him into some very dark places, mental places he had never dreamed a mind as well-curated as his would be capable of.

A wave of dizziness hit him as he stopped at a red light. Holbrook gripped the wheel tighter, trying to steady himself. He'd started self-medicating months ago—corticosteroids to suppress his immune response, iron supplements to boost red cell production, even limited blood transfusions when he could obtain them discreetly. But nothing worked, not for long. His body continued its relentless self-destruction.

And then he’d taken matters into his own hands. It had broken his heart to cross that line—to end a life to try saving his own—but he had been desperate. It had made him think of the endless well of information in Wrights office—a place he’d gotten to know rather well about a year or so ago when he had been shadowing the research team looking into several different branches of potential cures for a variety of blood disorders. Wright's experimental protocol—the blend of immunotherapy and specialized transfusions—showed more promise than anything he’d ever seen. And in the case of Maria Delgado, the approach had somehow reset her bone marrow function, creating healthy red blood cells where diseased ones had proliferated before.

The light turned green. Holbrook accelerated too slowly, earning another angry horn blast from behind. His foot felt leaden on the pedal, his reflexes dulled by the anemia ravaging his system.

Those first two victims—Sullivan and Palmer—had been mistakes. Their blood had contained those special antibodies, yes, but antibodies weren't enough. He'd transfused himself with their blood, expecting some miraculous reversal of his symptoms, but nothing had changed. If anything, his condition had worsened after Palmer's blood. The rejection response had sent him into a fever that lasted two days—a fever he’d thought might very well kill him.

Martinez had been another desperate attempt. His O-negative blood type had seemed promising—universal donor, minimal rejection risk. But again, nothing. No improvement. Just more wasted life, more evidence of his own failure.

The steering wheel was slick beneath his palms now, his sweat mingling with the leather. A coughing fit seized him, and he pulled over briefly, hacking until he tasted the familiar metallic tang of blood in his mouth. He spat into a tissue, unsurprised by the bright red stain. Internal bleeding was becoming more common as his platelets failed to function properly. Without proper clotting factors, even minor lesions could become dangerous.

But Maria Delgado was different. Her blood carried the signature of Wright's cure—not just antibodies, but reconfigured cellular structures, reprogrammed bone marrow function. The miracle wasn't in her blood at its current state; it was in the process that had changed it. If he could get enough of her blood, perform a direct transfusion to introduce those altered cells into his own system...

That was why this time had to be different. No careful extraction, no storage for later use. He needed her blood fresh, pumping directly into his veins, carrying the cure straight to his failing marrow. A transfer from her living body to his.

The navigation system on his phone chimed, indicating he was approaching his turn onto Maple Lane. Holbrook wiped his brow with his sleeve, trying to clear the fog from his mind. The simple act of driving had depleted him more than it should have. The brief struggle with Wright in the parking lot had left him shaking, barely able to run away before that technician could reach them. He still wasn’t sure where he had drawn the energy and strength to throw that punch. Even now, his heart was racing too fast, working too hard to pump oxygen through his depleted bloodstream.

How much time did he have? The headaches were worsening, his vision occasionally doubling—signs of his brain suffering from inadequate oxygen. His kidneys would likely be next, then cascading organ failure. Days, perhaps. Maybe less.

He turned onto Maple Lane, a quiet residential street lined with modest, well-maintained homes. The GPS indicated Maria Delgado's house was halfway down the block—a small blue square of a place with a well-tended garden. Holbrook drove past it once, scanning for signs of activity. A single car in the driveway. Lights on in what appeared to be the kitchen. Movement behind curtained windows.

Good. She was home.

He parked two houses down, out of direct sightline but close enough for easy access. He grabbed his bag from the back seat, as well as the scrubs. Only…he wasn’t going to take the full precautions this time. He didn’t have the convenience of time right now. So he settled for the bare essentials…the cheap lab coat and the surgical mask—the same ones he'd used for the previous victims. The contents of his bag were also essentially the same, but with additional equipment for this final attempt. Butterfly needles, IV tubing, a portable transfusion pump designed for emergency field use. And sedatives—precisely measured midazolam, enough to keep her compliant but conscious, her heart pumping steadily.

Another wave of dizziness crashed over him as he stepped out of the car. He had to lean against the vehicle for several moments, waiting for the world to stop spinning. The simple exertion of walking from his parking spot to her front door might be enough to collapse him without intervention. Holbrook reached into his jacket pocket, fingers closing around a pre-filled syringe. His emergency measure—a mixture of epinephrine and synthetic oxygen carriers that would give him about twenty minutes of artificial strength. Enough time to get inside, subdue Delgado, and begin the transfusion.

He rolled up his sleeve and found a vein—harder now than it once was, his peripheral circulation already compromised. The needle slid in with practiced precision. He'd done this to himself countless times over the past months. The familiar burn spread through his arm as he pushed the plunger home.

Almost immediately, warmth flooded his system. His heartbeat steadied, then accelerated to a controlled rhythm. His vision sharpened, the fog receding temporarily. He knew the cost—this artificial boost would exact a heavy toll later, accelerating his decline. But there would be no "later" if he failed now.

Holbrook tucked the medical kit under his arm and slipped on latex gloves, then brought the surgical mask up over his mouth—both for anonymity and to hide the gray pallor of his face. He reached back into the car for his final prop—a clipboard with falsified homecare nursing papers. The perfect pretext to gain entry, especially for someone already familiar with medical services.

As he walked toward the blue house, each step measured and deliberate despite the artificial energy coursing through him, Holbrook mentally reviewed the procedure one last time. Gain entry. Subdue. Set up the transfusion apparatus. Direct vein-to-vein transfer, her miracle blood flowing into his dying system. No time for a bed or a couch; he’d do it right in the middle of the living room floor if that’s what it came down to.

He wasn't a monster, he reminded himself. He'd tried everything else first—conventional treatments, experimental protocols, black market medications from overseas. He'd exhausted every option before turning to this final, desperate measure.

But Maria Delgado would be different. Her blood carried the template for his survival.

Holbrook reached her front steps. The porch light was already on against the gathering dusk. He took one final steady breath, feeling the borrowed strength from the injection begin to ebb slightly. There would be no second chances. No more mistakes.

He reached up and pressed the doorbell. Through the front window, he could see movement—someone approaching. His finger tightened around the loaded syringe in his pocket.

Maria Delgado would save him, whether she wanted to or not.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Addison hated to seem like a drama queen whenever Javier was driving, but she instinctually found herself grabbing the overhead handle as he took a corner too fast as they raced toward North Queen Anne. The sedan's tires squealed in protest, and for a moment, she thought they might slide right into an oncoming car. But Javier corrected with practiced precision—the kind that came from years of driving in situations where split-second decisions determined whether you lived or died.

"ETA three minutes," he said, eyes never leaving the road. "Any word from Loomis?”

"She texted just as you were testing the laws of physics on that corner back there. Local PD should be about five or ten minutes behind us. A traffic jam on Aurora has them gridlocked." They've been told to hold off unless we give a signal."

Javier hit the accelerator harder, pushing the car to its limits. The engine roared in response, and they shot past a delivery truck that honked angrily at their unmarked car. In situations like these, Addison felt that she had to remind herself not to get excited…not to let the thrill of speeding along in Seattle traffic at a reckless pace take precedence over the case. But God, it was heart-pounding. Any lingering exhaustion she may have felt back at the field office was long gone now.

"You think we'll make it in time?" Javier asked, glancing at her briefly.

Addison checked her weapon, ensuring the magazine was fully seated, the action clear—wanting to make sure she saved every available second for once they arrived on the scene. "Don’t know. Depends on how much time passed between Wright getting attacked and when he made the call to us.”

The GPS directed them onto Maple Lane, a tree-lined street of modest homes built in the early 1900s. The neighborhood screamed middle-class comfort—tidy front gardens, well-maintained porches, bicycles leaning against fences. The kind of street where neighbors still knew each other's names, where block parties probably happened every summer.

"There," Addison pointed. "Blue house, halfway down."

Javier pulled to a sharp stop across the street, not directly in front of the house. Standard approach protocol—don't announce your arrival any sooner than necessary. They both scanned the scene for anything out of place as they crossed the street. The house itself was modest but well-kept: a single-story house with white trim and a small, covered porch. Potted plants lined the steps, and wind chimes swayed in the gentle evening breeze. A Toyota Camry sat in the driveway, the sticker for a local rock station on the bumper. Nothing about the exterior suggested that anything untoward might be going on inside.

But then they reached the porch and saw that the front door was standing ajar by maybe two inches.

Javier pointed to it, and Addison nodded. They both drew their weapons as they started up the stairs.

They moved in tandem, weapons drawn but held low against their thighs—no need to alarm the neighbors unless necessary. The fading daylight cast long shadows across the lawn as they approached the house, taking positions on either side of the front steps.

Addison nodded to Javier, communicating without words their next move. He returned the nod, stepping carefully toward the opened door while she covered him. The wooden boards creaked slightly under his weight. He nudged the door with his foot, letting it swing open wider, revealing a dimly lit entryway.

"FBI," he called out. "Maria Delgado?"

Silence.

Addison followed him up the steps, both of them now positioned on either side of the doorway. They stepped into an entryway adorned with framed family photos on the walls, a small table with a bowl of keys, a pair of men's shoes kicked off haphazardly beside a tidy row of women's footwear.

Something dark caught Addison's eye—a smudge on the doorframe, about waist-high. She leaned closer. Blood. Not much, just a small smear, but fresh enough to still be slightly tacky when she touched it with her gloved finger.

They exchanged glances. No more hesitation.

"FBI!" Javier announced again, louder this time, as they entered the house properly, weapons raised now.

The first thing Addison registered was the copper-penny scent of blood, stronger inside than the trace amount on the doorframe had suggested. A soft thud came from somewhere deeper in the house—like something heavy shifting position.

"Bedroom," Addison mouthed to Javier, gesturing down the hallway.

They moved further into the house, clearing each space as they went. The living room opened to their right—a cozy space with a sectional sofa, floor lamps casting pools of warm light, a stack of medical journals on the coffee table, a television still on but muted, displaying the evening news.

Something darker waited to their left, near the entrance to what appeared to be the kitchen.

"Javier," Addison whispered, tilting her head toward the sprawled figure on the floor.

A man, maybe mid-thirties, Hispanic, dressed in khakis and a blue button-down, lay face-down on the hardwood. A puddle of blood had formed around his head, seeping from a gash that ran from his temple into his hairline. The blood looked fresh, still spreading slowly across the polished wood.

Javier crouched beside the fallen man, fingers finding the pulse point at his neck. "Alive," he confirmed in a whisper. "Just knocked out.”

Addison nodded, relieved but still tense. This would be Maria's husband, most likely. The wound looked like it came from a blunt force impact—maybe Holbrook had caught him by surprise, struck him from behind.

"Call it in," she whispered, already moving toward the hallway. "I'll clear the rest."

Javier nodded, pulling out his phone as he maintained his position near the injured man. But she took note of the look of concern on his face. Ever since they’d gotten romantically involved, he always seemed uncertain whenever she had to go off on her own.

The hallway stretched before her, more family photos lining the walls—Maria and the man on the floor on their wedding day, at various vacation spots, with what looked like extended family. Normal, happy lives interrupted by a desperate killer who saw Maria as nothing more than a walking cure. Addison idly wondered if they had children and, if so, how Holbrook would have handled them. The same as the man on the floor? The thought sent an icy chill racing through her.

Addison checked each doorway as she passed—a bathroom on the left, spotless and smelling of lavender; a small home office on the right, desk neat and organized, a laptop closed beside a decorative plant with large leaves.

At the end of the hallway, a bedroom door stood partially open, artificial light spilling out. Addison could hear movement inside—shuffling feet, the metallic clink of equipment, and something else. A low, steady beeping, like medical monitoring equipment.

Her heart hammered in her chest and her drip tightened on her Glock as she approached. Her steps were calm and measured despite the adrenaline flooding her system. She flattened herself against the wall beside the door, listening intently. Nothing…just the hum of a faint machine. Ha they not been expecting to find medical equipment on the scene with the killer, Addison may have just passed it off as the house's HVAC system.

Addison took a deep breath, then pivoted into the doorway, weapon raised.

The bedroom was larger than she expected, dominated by a king-sized bed with a floral comforter. Framed art hung on pale blue walls, and a reading nook with a comfortable chair sat beneath a bay window. Like the rest of the house, it was a space designed for comfort and peace.

But the scene playing out against this domestic backdrop was anything but peaceful.

Maria Delgado lay on the bed, eyes half-open but unfocused. An IV line ran from her arm, the needle secured with medical tape. The line connected to a small portable pump sitting on the nightstand, which in turn connected to another line that disappeared into the arm of Dr. James Holbrook, who sat in a chair pulled alongside the bed.

Holbrook looked even worse than Wright had described. His skin had an ashen, almost gray cast to it, with a yellowing tinge around his eyes that extended across his cheekbones. His hair was thin and lank, seemingly having fallen out in patches. The hand not connected to the IV trembled visibly, and the whites of his eyes had a jaundiced, sickly yellow appearance.

He looked like death itself, preserved only by desperate determination.

“FBI!” Addison shouted. “Holbrook, don’t you dare move.”

When Addison entered, he'd been monitoring the pump's readings, adjusting the flow rate. But at her command, he moved with surprising speed for someone so clearly ill. In one fluid motion, he produced a scalpel from his medical kit and pressed it against Maria's throat.

“I said don’t—”

"Stay exactly where you are," Holbrook interrupted, his voice steadier than his appearance suggested. "Any closer and I'll open her carotid. She'll bleed out in seconds."

Addison kept her weapon trained on him, assessing the situation in rapid-fire thoughts. Maria was alive but heavily sedated. The transfusion had just begun, judging by the amount of blood in the tubing between them. Holbrook was on the far side of the bed, furthest away so that Maria's body was between them.

"Dr. Holbrook," she said, keeping her voice level, "you need to put down the scalpel. This isn't going to end the way you want."

A strange smile crossed Holbrook's face—a rictus of desperation and triumph mixed together. "On the contrary, Agent. This is exactly how it ends. I've already begun the transfusion." His words were quiet, barely even propelled from his mouth. Addison knew she was looking at a man standing on the very edge of death's door. "Her blood is already flowing into my veins. I can feel the difference already."

Addison doubted that. It was likely just a placebo effect, or perhaps the desperate hope of a dying man. Either way, she needed to keep him talking while she looked for an opening.

"Listen to me, James" she said, using his first name deliberately, trying to establish a connection, "you're a doctor. You've dedicated your life to helping people. This isn't you."

"You have no idea who I am," he snapped, pressing the scalpel closer to Maria's throat. A thin red line appeared where the blade touched skin, a single drop of blood welling up. "Do you know what it's like to feel your body destroying itself from the inside? To have your own immune system turn against you? To know exactly what's happening but be powerless to stop it?"

"We can get you help," Addison insisted, taking a half-step to the left, trying to get a better angle. "Dr. Wright's treatment protocol—"

"Wright's protocol takes months," Holbrook interrupted, his voice rising. "I don't have months. I barely have days. But this—" he nodded to the IV line running between him and Maria, "—this direct transfusion of her reconfigured blood cells, this is my only chance."

"You're killing her," Addison said bluntly, noticing Maria's already pale skin taking on a waxy quality as the transfusion continued.

Holbrook's smile returned, more terrible than before. "I calculated the exact amount I need. Six pints should transfer enough of the recoded cells to jump-start my own bone marrow's recovery. That's only about half her blood volume. She might survive."

"Might isn't good enough," Addison replied, anger creeping into her voice. "And neither is half her blood. You're a doctor—you know the human body can't lose that much blood safely."

"I know enough to keep her alive until I've taken what I need," Holbrook countered. "The sedative will keep her blood pressure low, reducing the strain on her heart as her volume decreases. The IV solution I've added will maintain her fluid levels. It's not ideal, but it could work."

Addison could hear Javier speaking urgently into his phone in the other room, calling for backup and paramedics. She needed to stall longer, keep Holbrook talking. But she also knew that every second Maria was hooked into that tube, her life was in more danger.

"The others," she said. "Sullivan, Palmer, Martinez. Why didn't you try this with them? Why did you drain them completely?"

A flash of genuine regret crossed Holbrook's face. "Mistakes. Their blood profiles showed promise—particularly their antibody configurations. I thought transfusing their blood might trigger my immune system to reset itself. But I was wrong. Their blood was special, but not special enough. Not like hers."

He glanced down at Maria with something almost like reverence. "Her blood carries the template for the cure. Wright somehow reconfigured her bone marrow to stop destroying her red blood cells. The answer isn't in her blood's current state—it's in the process that changed it. I need enough of her modified cells to trigger the same transformation in my own marrow."

The transfusion pump beeped, adjusting its flow rate automatically. Maria's breathing seemed shallower now, her skin paler. Whatever calculations Holbrook had made about how much blood he could safely take, Addison suspected they were compromised by his own desperation.

"James," she tried again, "you've already hurt three people. Don't add a fourth to your conscience. We can stop this now. We can get Wright to help you—the right way."

"It's too late for that," he said simply. "I'm already a murderer in the eyes of the law. I’m not stupid. Now…you're going to back out of this room and close the door. You're going to give me thirty minutes to complete this transfusion. Then I'll leave, and you can save what's left of Maria Delgado. If you don’t. I’ll slice her neck open."

"You know I can't do that," Addison said, weapon still steady in her hands.

"Then I'll cut her throat right now," Holbrook replied, voice eerily calm. "And neither of us gets what we want."

"You're killing her either way," Addison said, trying to make him see reason. "Even if I back out, even if you get your thirty minutes, she won't survive that much blood loss. Surely you know this.”

Holbrook's face contorted, that death-mask smile stretching his gaunt features into something barely human. His yellowed eyes locked with hers, and in them, Addison saw not just desperation but a terrible clarity—the look of a man who had moved beyond the boundaries of conventional morality, who saw his survival as the only imperative that mattered.

He smiled, but there was no humor in it. Only death.

"Then I guess you have a choice to make, don't you?" he said.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Addison kept her weapon trained on Holbrook, as she did her best to calculate the odds in real-time. The transfusion equipment hummed softly between them, a metronome counting down Maria Delgado's life. Every second that passed meant more blood leaving the unconscious woman's body, flowing through the clear tubing and into Holbrook's veins. It truly was like opening the door into some sort of mad scientist’s lab.

"Think about what you're doing, James," Addison said, taking a small step to the left to improve her firing angle...if that’s what it came down to. "If you cut her throat, you lose everything you came for."

Holbrook's scalpel remained pressed against Maria's neck, but Addison noted the slight tremor in his hand—not just from his illness, but hesitation. The thin line where blade met skin had produced another droplet of blood, a perfect ruby sphere that rolled slowly down Maria's neck and disappeared into the collar of her blouse.

"What good does her blood do you if it’s spilled all over these sheets?” Addison said. “That's why you've been so careful with the others, isn't it? Not a drop wasted."

Something flickered across Holbrook's wasted features—a spark of uncertainty breaking through his desperate resolve. His yellowed eyes darted between Addison and the transfusion line.

"You don't understand," he said, his voice suddenly softer. "I'm already dead. This is my only chance."

"I do understand," Addison countered. "But there's something you need to know about Maria's treatment." She took a calculated risk, hoping her medical background would give weight to the lie she was about to craft. "Wright's protocol isn't complete. Maria isn't cured."

Holbrook's eyes narrowed. "You're lying."

"No. We’ve spoken to him several times in the course of this investigation. The last round of tests showed anomalies," Addison continued smoothly. "Unstable cell structures. Wright was keeping it quiet until he could figure out why the treatment appeared successful initially but started breaking down." She nodded toward the IV line. "You might be pumping poison into your system right now. Accelerating your condition instead of curing it."

His hand wavered slightly, the scalpel moving a fraction of an inch away from Maria's neck. "If that were true, Wright would have discontinued the treatment. He would have published his findings as a warning to others."

"You know how research works, doctor," Addison pressed, scrambling and hoping she still seemed at least somewhat authentic. "Wright needed more data before going public. One failed case doesn't invalidate a promising treatment protocol. He was monitoring Maria weekly, looking for markers of regression."

For a moment, doubt shadowed Holbrook's face. The transfusion pump beeped again, adjusting its flow rate as Maria's blood pressure continued to drop. Her breathing had become shallow and rapid, her eyes narrowing and now almost closed completely.

Then Holbrook's expression hardened once more, the momentary uncertainty burned away by the heat of his desperation.

"Even if what you're saying is true—which I doubt—what choice do I have?" His voice took on a strange, hollow quality. "This is my only chance. Without this blood, I die within days. With it..." He glanced at the transfusion line. "I might have a future. I still have a chance."

The medical equipment continued its soft, steady rhythm—the pump's gentle whir, the periodic beep of monitoring equipment, the soft drip of IV fluids. Addison could hear Javier moving in the hallway outside; she assumed he was choosing to stay out of sight for now. The addition of another agent to this tense stand-off could make things infinitely worse.

"Wright can help you," Addison tried again. "The right way. Not this..."

"It's too late for that," Holbrook interrupted. "Far too late." He leaned forward slightly, his gaze intense. "Do you know what it's like to watch your own body betray you? To feel your strength ebb day by day?”

His free hand clenched into a fist. "I diagnosed myself before any of my colleagues noticed the symptoms. I tracked my own declining blood markers. I watched my immune system turn against my bone marrow day by day. And I exhausted every legitimate treatment option before I ever considered this."

The monitor attached to Maria beeped a warning—her pulse was becoming erratic, her blood pressure dangerously low.

"She's dying," Addison said bluntly. "You're running out of time, James. Not just for yourself, but for any chance of saving her."

"I calculated everything carefully," he insisted, though uncertainty had crept back into his voice. "The sedative, the fluid replacement, the extraction rate... she should be stable enough for at least twenty minutes more."

Holbrook's gaze flicked to the monitor, registering the warning signs. For a moment, Addison saw something like his former self—the doctor, the healer—emerge from behind the desperate killer he'd become. His grip on the scalpel loosened fractionally.

Sensing an opening, Addison took a careful step forward.

It was the wrong move.

Holbrook reacted instantly, pressing the scalpel harder against Maria's throat. The blade broke skin, creating a thin line of red that began to well up along its edge.

"Stay back!" he snapped, his voice ragged. "I told you what would happen if you came closer."

Addison froze, weapon still trained on him. "You don't want to do this, James. You're a doctor. You took an oath to do no harm."

A bitter laugh escaped him. "That oath feels very distant when you're facing your own mortality. When the choice is between your life and someone else's..." He trailed off, his gaze distant for a moment. "You'd be surprised what you're capable of when death is breathing down your neck."

The line of blood at Maria's throat had widened slightly, the crimson trail now flowing more steadily down her neck. Not arterial yet—Holbrook hadn't cut deep enough to nick the carotid—but it was clear he was done with talk.

"Either back away and let me finish, or I'll open her throat and we both lose," he said.

Addison registered each element of the scene in crystalline detail: Maria's shallow breathing, the steady drip of blood from the scalpel's edge, the yellowed whites of Holbrook's eyes, the tremor in his hand as he prepared to make good on his threat.

She saw the moment his resolve hardened, the instant his hand tensed to draw the blade across Maria's throat. There was a strange sadness in his eyes, perhaps even acceptance. He knew this was the end, one way or another.

Addison didn't hesitate.

She pulled the trigger. The gun bucked in her hand, the report deafening in the confined space of the bedroom. The bullet struck Holbrook center mass, just left of his sternum. His body jerked backward, the scalpel falling from suddenly nerveless fingers and clattering to the hardwood floor.

For a moment, he remained upright, a look of surprise rather than pain crossing his features. His hand went to his chest, coming away wet with blood. He seemed baffled by it all at first and then opened his mouth slowly.

"No..." he gasped, staring at his bloodied hand in dismay.

He collapsed to his knees beside the bed, his gaze fixed not on his own wound but on the transfusion line that had been torn from his arm in the impact. Blood—his and Maria's, now impossible to distinguish—pooled on the carpet beneath him, soaking into the fibers in an expanding dark stain.

The terrible irony wasn't lost on Addison—the man who had killed to preserve every drop of precious blood was now watching his own drain uselessly onto the floor.

Holbrook slumped forward, still conscious but fading rapidly. His bloodied hand reached weakly toward the disconnected IV line, a futile gesture toward a salvation that remained just beyond his grasp.

Javier burst through the doorway, weapon drawn, taking in the scene in an instant. Addison heard him but did not see him. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off of the fallen shape that was James Holbrook.

"Christ," Javier muttered, then immediately holstered his gun and moved to check Maria's pulse. "She's alive. But we need an ambulance…I’ll make the call. You okay?”

Addison only nodded, forcing herself to move forward to disconnect Maria from the transfusion equipment. She applied pressure to the shallow cut on the woman's neck while checking her other vital signs. "Get me the first aid kit from the car. We need to start fluid replacement immediately."

As Javier rushed from the room, Addison glanced back at Holbrook. He had collapsed completely now, sprawled on his back in a widening pool of his own blood. His eyes were still open, fixed on the ceiling, his breathing shallow and irregular.

She knew there was nothing to be done for him—the bullet had likely pierced his heart, and even if it hadn't, the blood loss would be fatal within minutes. Still, she felt compelled to speak.

"I'm sorry it came to this," she said quietly.

His eyes found hers one last time, a strange lucidity returning to them in his final moments.

"I just wanted..." he began, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. But his wants would go unheard, as he couldn’t find the strength to finish the thought. As if a switch had been turned somewhere, the light faded from his eyes, and death finally took him.

Addison turned back to Maria, focusing all her attention on saving the one life still within her power to preserve. She worked methodically, applying her medical training as she stabilized the unconscious woman, slowing the bleeding, monitoring her weak pulse.

In the distance, she could hear sirens approaching—help, finally on its way in the form of the units Loomis had sent to come in behind them. But as she worked, her mind kept returning to Holbrook's final words. Not a justification, not an excuse—but perhaps, in some twisted way, an explanation for the horrors he had committed.

Sometimes, Addison supposed, the desperate need to survive could transform even those with healing hands into a monster.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

At some point in the chaos of the moments that followed, Addison found herself slinking slowly away toward the back door of the Delgado’s home. At the front, yard had transformed into an impromptu command center—police cruisers with flashing lights, an ambulance with its rear doors open like a gaping mouth, uniformed officers securing the perimeter. Organized chaos in the wake of bloodshed.

"Good work in there, Agent," a passing officer said, giving her shoulder a brief, awkward pat as he hurried past with evidence bags.

Another nodded grimly. "Heard you saved the woman's life."

Addison couldn't bring herself to respond. Her throat felt raw, and her hands—steady during the crisis—had begun to tremble. She managed a tight nod before continuing toward the far corner of the yard, seeking distance from the activity. The praise felt hollow in her ears. Yes, she'd saved Maria Delgado. But she'd also put a bullet through a sick man's heart.

Finally, she came to the back door which sat just off a small laundry room. She made her way outside, and the darkening evening air felt heavy against her skin. She found a patch of shadow against the weathered fence, partially hidden by an overgrown rhododendron. Here, away from the lights, radio chatter, and the efficient buzzing of the first responders, she pressed her back against the wooden slats and slid down until she sat on the cool grass.

And then the tears came.

They weren't dramatic sobs or wailing grief—just silent, hot trails down her cheeks that she couldn't control. Her breathing remained even, almost deliberate, as if her body was trying to maintain discipline while her emotions rebelled.

Holbrook's face floated in her mind's eye, not as he'd been at the end—desperate and dangerous—but as the man he must have been before illness twisted him into a killer. A doctor. A healer. Someone who had once sworn to protect life, not take it. She couldn't stop seeing his yellowed eyes, wide with shock as her bullet tore through his chest. The way his hand had reached, not toward his own wound, but toward the spilled blood on the floor. His last words—I just wanted—echoed in her thoughts, a stark reminder of the fragile humanity behind his monstrous actions.

She was willing to bet anything that his unfinished comment had ended with just two more simple words: …to live.

Her training had prepared her for the physical act of taking a life when necessary. She'd done it before, and though it had been difficult, it had not stung like this. It had not prepared her for how it would feel to kill a man who was already dying.

Unbidden, Jane's face appeared in her thoughts—not the pre-teen girl from her nightmare, but Jane as she might be now, a woman in her late twenties. What would Addison tell her sister about tonight? How would she explain that she had pointed her service weapon at a terminally ill man and pulled the trigger from less than five feet away?

I did what I had to do, she imagined herself saying.

But the Jane in her mind just looked back with sad eyes, asking silently if there hadn't been another way.

Addison wiped roughly at her cheeks with the heel of her hand. This was ridiculous. Jane wasn't here. Jane might not even be alive. And even if she was, Addison had no idea what kind of person her sister had become in the fifteen years since her disappearance—what she would think about anything, let alone the moral complexities of deadly force.

Yet in moments like this, when Addison felt most vulnerable, most human, Jane's absence became a presence of its own—a void that shaped her thoughts as surely as any physical person could. She thought it odd that thoughts of her sister seemed stronger in these raw and vulnerable moments. She was sure a shrink would be able to help her sort through it, but she didn’t feel she was ready for that just yet.

She thought of the diary sitting in her apartment, her father's fingerprints found on the box it had arrived in. Why had he sent it now, after all these years? What was she supposed to find in those childhood pages? Was she missing something? Was she failing not only her sister but also whatever strange and unexpressed hopes her father had pinned on her?

The sound of footsteps on grass pulled her back to the present. She hastily wiped at her face again, clearing the evidence of tears, and looked up, expecting to see a uniform requesting her statement.

Instead, Javier's familiar silhouette appeared around the rhododendron. He paused when he saw her sitting there, then moved forward more cautiously.

"Hey," he said softly. "Been looking for you."

Addison straightened, trying to compose herself, but it was too late. In the dim light filtering through the fence slats, she saw the concern in his eyes—deep concern that reached into sadness. Without a word, he crossed the remaining distance between them and crouched down beside her. His arms encircled her, strong and steady, pulling her against his chest in a fierce embrace.

"You did what you had to do," he murmured into her hair, giving voice to the very justification she'd imagined offering Jane. "You saved Maria's life. There was no other way. He wasn't going to back down. I was in the hallway and heard it all."

She allowed herself to sink into his embrace, her face pressed against his shoulder. The familiar and faint scent of his cologne anchored her to the present, pushing back the ghosts that had been crowding her thoughts.

"I know," she whispered. "I just... he was dying anyway, Javier. Terminal. And I put a bullet in his heart."

Javier's arms tightened around her. "He was killing a woman. Would have killed others if he had the chance…or the time. Being sick doesn't give anyone the right to take lives."

"I know that too." She pulled back slightly, looking up at him. "Logically, I know all of it. But then I close my eyes and see his face when the bullet hit. The surprise in his eyes, like he couldn't believe it was ending that way. Like he had tried so hard, and that was how it ended…"

"That's because you're human," Javier said, brushing a strand of hair from her face with gentle fingers. "The day killing someone—anyone—stops affecting you is the day you should step away from this job.”

They sat together in silence for a moment, the sounds of the crime scene continuing in the background—radio calls, car doors slamming, the soft murmur of voices giving and receiving orders.

"How's Maria?" Addison asked finally.

"Responsive," Javier said, shifting to sit beside her against the fence. "The EMTs have her stabilized in the ambulance. Her vitals are improving with the fluid replacement. They think she'll make it."

"And her husband?"

"That's the irony," Javier said with a grim chuckle. "Maria lost at least two pints of blood, maybe three, and she's the stable one. Her husband has a skull fracture and possible intracranial bleeding. They're bringing in a second ambulance for him—should be here any minute. But he’s going to be a bigger question mark than she will.”

Addison nodded, relief washing through her. At least Holbrook hadn't succeeded in adding more names to his victim list.

"What about the scene inside?"

"Under control," Javier assured her. "Loomis is en route. Local PD is handling the initial documentation. Coroner's been called for Holbrook." He hesitated. "They want your statement, but I told them it could wait until morning. You've been through enough tonight."

"Thank you," she said softly, gratitude washing through her. The thought of recounting the shooting in clinical detail right now felt impossible.

A gentle breeze rustled through the yard, stirring the dried rhododendron leaves of a bush to their left. It also carried the scent of someone's backyard barbecue from down the street. Addison wondered if the griller had heard the subtle pop of her gun taking a man’s life ten minutes ago. One way or the other, life continued as normal just a few houses away, oblivious to the death and near tragedy that had unfolded here. The contrast was jarring.

"What do you need?" Javier asked, his voice low and intimate in the darkness.

Addison turned to look at him, studying his face in the dim light. The concern in his dark eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his gaze never left hers—all of it spoke of a depth of feeling that still surprised her sometimes. This partnership-turned-relationship was still new enough that moments like this caught her off guard.

She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his in a soft, brief kiss. As she pulled back, she rested her forehead against his shoulder. Jane flashed in her thoughts again—an echo of childhood memories, a shadow of what might have been. The diary back at her apartment seemed to call to her, promising answers or at least connection to that lost piece of her past. She wondered why her mind kept circling back to Jane tonight of all nights. Perhaps because death always made her think of loss, and Jane was her greatest loss of all.

Or perhaps because facing her own mortality in that bedroom—staring down a desperate man with a scalpel—had reminded her how fragile life could be, how quickly everything could change. One moment of looking away in a shopping mall fifteen years ago had altered the course of her entire family's existence. One bullet tonight had ended a man's desperate fight for survival.

"Addison?" Javier prompted gently when she remained silent.

She sighed, lifting her head to meet his gaze again. What did she need? The list seemed endless and impossible all at once. Absolution. Understanding. Time to process the weight of taking a life, even one as compromised as Holbrook's. Answers about Jane. A conversation with her father about why he'd sent the diary.

But what she said was much simpler.

"You know what I really need? A nap."

A surprised laugh escaped Javier, the sound warm and welcome in the cool night air. "A nap," he repeated, shaking his head with fond exasperation. "After everything that's happened tonight, that's what you come up with?"

"An obscenely long nap," she clarified, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. "The kind where you wake up and it's a different day, you have awful breath, and everything feels a little less... immediate."

Javier nodded, understanding, softening his features. "That, I can arrange." He stood up, extending his hand to help her to her feet. "We'll give our preliminary statements to the locals, make sure everything's covered, and then I'm taking you home."

Addison took his hand, allowing him to pull her upright. Her body felt heavy, weighed down by adrenaline crash and emotional exhaustion. As she stood, the distant wail of another ambulance approached—the one coming for Maria's husband, she assumed. They emerged from the shadows into the harsh light of the crime scene. Uniforms turned toward them, faces expectant, questions ready. The work wasn't over—it never really was in their line of duty. There would be reports to file, a shooting review to face, a killer's motives to document for the official record.

But for now, for this brief moment between responsibility and duty, Addison allowed herself to find comfort in Javier's steady presence beside her. Tomorrow’s problems were exactly that…tomorrow’s problems.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

The hospital's main lobby was eerily quiet and though it wasn’t the proper place for the nap she’d requested, Addison felt that it was somehow the perfect place…a place that never truly slept. Night had settled firmly over Seattle, and the large windows reflected back the interior rather than showing the darkness outside. Addison sat in an uncomfortable chair, her body feeling like it had aged a decade in the last few hours. Beside her, Javier scrolled through messages on his phone, occasionally updating her on the ongoing processing of the Delgado house crime scene.

In the end, the idea of going home and sleeping right away had felt cowardly. She knew there was no way she’d be able to rest anyway…not until she knew the Delgados were both going to pull through.

"Loomis says she'll expect our full reports tomorrow afternoon," Javier said, looking up from his screen. "She's giving us the morning to decompress."

Addison nodded absently, her mind still replaying fragments from the bedroom confrontation. The steady beep of Maria's monitors. The thin line of blood from the scalpel. The look in Holbrook's eyes as the bullet struck him. Every detail preserved with the unforgiving clarity of a trauma memory.

"Hey," Javier said softly, setting his phone down and covering her hand with his. "You still with me?"

She turned to him, forcing her thoughts back to the present moment. "Yeah. Just... processing."

A few nurses passed through the lobby, their sneakers squeaking softly on the polished floor. In the far corner, a family huddled together, their expressions suggesting they were waiting for news that might change their lives forever. Somehow, in her exhaustion, their collective anxiety seemed to radiate across the space, mingling with her own.

"I just want to know they're going to be okay," she said, nodding toward the corridor that led to the emergency department where the Delgados had been taken. "Then maybe I can—"

She broke off suddenly, her attention caught by a familiar figure moving down a perpendicular hallway toward the exit. Even from a distance, she recognized the man: Dr. Wright.

"Is that...?" Javier began, following her gaze.

"Wright," she confirmed, already rising from her seat.

They intercepted him near the sliding glass doors leading to the parking lot. Up close, Wright looked even more haggard than when they'd last seen him. A butterfly bandage spanned a cut on his right cheekbone, and his lower lip was visibly swollen on one side. He carried a small pharmacy bag in one hand.

"Dr. Wright," Addison called, drawing his attention.

He stopped, blinking in surprise. "Agent Shine…Agent Esposito. I didn't expect to see you here."

"We're waiting for updates on the Delgados," Javier explained.

“Oh! Yes. Was it…”

"What about you?” Addison asked, not wanting to delve into the details of how things had gone down in the bedroom at the Delgado house. “Shouldn't you be resting after your encounter with Holbrook?"

Wright gestured vaguely to his face with his free hand. "Just some minor repairs. When Holbrook attacked me, he busted my lip and knocked a tooth partially loose. Needed a few stitches and a dental consult." He forced a thin smile that looked painful with his swollen lip. "Nothing compared to what could have happened if you hadn't figured things out when you did." His expression grew suddenly serious, likely noticing how quickly Addison had shifted the conversation. "What happened? Did you catch Holbrook?"

Addison hesitated, weighing how much detail to share in the middle of a hospital lobby. "It's over," she said finally, choosing her words carefully. "But we had to take drastic actions against Holbrook. He didn't make it... and he was apparently very sick and on death's door before today."

Wright's face fell, genuine sadness mixing with shock. "My God," he murmured. "I…I hope you know I am truly sorry I wasn’t more help.”

“No worries there,” Javier said. “In the end, you calling us saved a woman’s life, it seems.”

Wright nodded, absently touching the bandage on his cheek. "I should get going. These painkillers won't take themselves." He lifted the pharmacy bag slightly, giving it a little shake.

At approximately the same moment Dr. Wright stepped toward the sliding doors, a nurse approached them from behind. She looked solemn and maybe a bit tired as they faced each other. Wright nodded politely and stepped away, disappearing through the sliding doors into the night.

"Agents?" the nurse asked as she approached. She was middle-aged with close-cropped gray hair and the pleasant tone of a woman with much experience in delivering both good and bad news. "I'm Nurse Calloway. You're here for the Delgados, correct?"

"Yes," Addison confirmed, tension tightening her shoulders. "How are they?" "

“Both are expected to make full recoveries," she reported. "Maria responded well to the blood transfusions and fluid replacement. Her vitals are stable now. We'll keep her overnight for observation, but the prognosis is excellent."

"And her husband?" Javier asked.

"Miguel has a more complicated situation," Calloway admitted. "The skull fracture requires surgical intervention, which is being prepped now. But," she added, seeing their concerned expressions, "the neurosurgeon is confident. The bleeding is minimal and accessible. There's no reason to expect anything but a complete recovery, though his rehabilitation period will be longer than Maria's. And quite painful, I’m afraid."

Addison felt something loosen in her chest—a knot of anxiety she'd been carrying since they'd found Miguel Delgado bleeding on his kitchen floor. "Can we see Maria?"

"She's resting now," Calloway said gently. "And to be frank, she probably won't be fully coherent until morning. The combination of the sedative that was administered by the…captor and our own medications for the procedures... she needs uninterrupted rest." The nurse checked her watch. "If you'd like to come back tomorrow, I'm sure she'd appreciate speaking with the agents who saved her life."

"We understand," Javier said, placing his hand on Addison's shoulder. "Thank you for the update."

Nurse Calloway nodded. "Of course. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"No, that's all," Addison said. "Thank you."

As the nurse walked away, Addison felt the full weight of the day's events crash down upon her. The relief of knowing the Delgados would recover had lifted one burden, but it also removed the adrenaline that had been keeping her upright for the past several hours.

Javier seemed to sense her sudden exhaustion. He took her hand, his fingers warm and steady around hers. "How about that nap?" he suggested, echoing her earlier request from the Delgados' backyard.

Addison glanced at the wall clock: 10:42 PM. The day had stretched endlessly, from her brief and broken nap at the field office in the early hours of morning to this moment standing in a quiet hospital lobby. Yes, the case was closed, but the emotional toll was just beginning to register.

She should be desperate for sleep. Every muscle ached, her eyes burned with fatigue, and her mind had that fuzzy quality that came from pushing too far beyond her limits. But with the news that Maria and her husband would recover, something had shifted. A small spark had reignited inside her—not enough to banish the darkness of the day entirely, but enough to push back against the crushing weight of exhaustion.

"What about coffee instead?" she suggested, surprising herself as much as Javier.

His eyebrows rose slightly, but then his face relaxed into a smile—one of those rare, unguarded expressions that transformed his usually serious features. "This late? And after you’d been begging for a nap?"

"Oh, I don’t think I’ve been begging for it,” she said with a tired smirk.

Javier's expression softened with understanding. "Coffee it is, then."

He didn't push for more explanation, didn't try to convince her that sleep would be better for her. Instead, he simply accepted what she needed in this moment. The simple acknowledgment warmed something inside her that had gone cold during those terrible moments in the Delgados' bedroom.

Addison looked up at him, really seeing him for perhaps the first time since they'd entered the hospital. The day had left its mark on him too—shadows under his eyes, tension lines around his mouth, his normally immaculate appearance slightly rumpled. Yet he stood there, steady and patient, waiting for her to set the course.

Their eyes locked, and in that moment, something shifted between them. A deepening, a recognition of how much they'd weathered together, not just today but through all the cases and crises that had forged their partnership. The realization struck her with unexpected clarity: what she felt for this man went far beyond professional respect or physical attraction. It had grown into something profound, something lasting—something that frightened and exhilarated her in equal measure.

Javier seemed to read her thoughts in her eyes. His thumb traced a gentle pattern across her knuckles where their hands remained joined. The simple gesture carried a weight that reached beyond coffee at midnight. It offered a safety and reassurance that Addison had never quite felt at such a level before.

Together, they walked toward the hospital exit, the glass doors sliding open to reveal the Seattle night—cool and clear, with stars visible despite the city lights. The fresh air felt like a promise after the antiseptic atmosphere of the hospital, a reminder that life continued beyond the borders of tragedy and violence.

As they stepped out into the darkness, Addison felt Javier's hand tighten briefly around hers. A small gesture of connection, of solidarity. Of something that might, with time and care, grow into much more.

For now, it was enough to walk together into the night, the case behind them, coffee ahead, and the possibility of healing—however slow and painful the process might be—stretching out before them like the star-scattered sky above.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Rain tapped against the windows of Addison's apartment, creating a soothing rhythm that matched the music playing from her speakers—Nirvana, Unplugged in New York. She knew it was a bit cliched to love this album so much, being that she lived in Seattle, but she didn't care. She was perfectly fine with certain stereotypes.

After three days, the Holbrook case was officially closed. Holbrook's body had been autopsied, confirming what they'd already known—he'd been suffering from a rare and aggressive form of autoimmune hemolytic anemia. The medical examiner had noted that even without Addison's bullet, he likely had only days to live, his organs already showing signs of advanced deterioration.

Maria Delgado had been released from the hospital the day before, and her husband's surgery was deemed successful. They were both on the road to recovery, though from what Addison had been told, her husband would be staying in the hospital for another week for observation. The paperwork was filed, the shooting review completed with the expected finding of justified use of deadly force. Life was settling back into its normal rhythms.

Or trying to, at least.

Addison curled against Javier on her couch while Snape purred contentedly on the armrest beside them. They'd ordered takeout from their favorite Thai place, the empty containers now sitting abandoned on the coffee table. A half-empty bottle of wine stood beside them, two glasses showing the evidence of their leisurely evening.

"I still can't believe Loomis gave us two days off," Javier said, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on Addison's shoulder. "I was expecting to be back at the grind already."

"I think she was impressed by how quickly we wrapped the case," Addison replied, nestling closer into the warmth of his body. "And maybe a little relieved that we saved her the paperwork of a prolonged investigation."

"Always thinking of others, our SAIC. I think maybe the trauma of it all might have had something to do with it, though.”

Addison chuckled, the sound vibrating against Javier's chest. The feeling of him beside her—the simple smell of him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing—provided an anchor that she was getting very familiar with. It made her feel safe…secure.

"This is nice," she murmured, tilting her head to look up at him.

"It is," he agreed, his dark eyes meeting hers with an intensity that sent warmth spreading through her body.

He leaned down slowly, capturing her lips with his. The kiss was gentle at first, a move of comfort more than anything else. But as Addison shifted to face him more fully, threading her fingers into his hair, the temperature between them rose perceptibly. Javier's hands found her waist, drawing her closer until she was practically in his lap. His mouth grew more insistent against hers, and Addison felt herself responding in kind, the events of the past week creating a desperate need for connection, for life-affirming touch after so much death.

When they broke apart to breathe, Javier's eyes had darkened, and Addison could feel the rapid beat of his heart where her palm rested against his chest. He traced the curve of her cheek with gentle fingers, then moved to kiss her again. Her body seemed to thrum as she sensed where this was headed.

But as his lips met hers again, something shifted in Addison's mind. An image flashed—Jane's diary sitting on her desk. Her father's fingerprints on the box it had come in. Her secretive little phone calls and deliveries to get poof of those fingerprints. The questions that still haunted her nightmares.

She pulled back slightly, placing a hand on Javier's chest to create a small space between them.

"What's wrong?" he asked immediately, concern replacing desire in his expression. "Did I—"

"No," she assured him quickly. "It's not you. God, believe me, it’s not you. It's..." She hesitated, searching for the right words. "There's something I need to tell you. Something important."

Javier straightened slightly but kept his arms loosely around her waist. "I'm listening."

Addison took a deep breath, suddenly unsure how to begin. This wasn't a work matter to be outlined in logical sequence. This was her life, her pain, her most closely guarded vulnerability.

"You know about my sister," she started, her voice quieter than she intended. "About Jane disappearing when I was thirteen."

Javier nodded. She'd shared the basic facts with him not long after they became partners, though she rarely discussed the details. And he also kept it quiet, never asking questions unless she had already brought the topic up.

"What I haven't told you is that about three weeks ago, I received a package." The words felt thick in her throat, but she pushed on. "It contained Jane's childhood diary—her actual diary, the one she kept before she disappeared."

Javier's expression shifted to surprise. "After all this time? Who sent it?"

"That's just it," Addison said, moving to sit cross-legged facing him on the couch. "There was no note, no explanation. Just the diary in a plain cardboard box."

"Did you check for fingerprints?" Javier asked, his investigator's instincts immediately engaged. She smiled, so very thrilled that it was the first place his mind'd gone.

"Of course I did. And that's where it gets complicated. The only prints on the box, besides mine from opening it, belonged to my father."

Javier's eyebrows rose. "Your father? The one you barely speak to?"

"The very same." Addison sat up partially and reached for her wine glass, taking a small sip to steady herself. "I've tried calling him a few times since the prints came back, but he won't answer. His phone goes straight to voicemail."

"That's... strange," Javier said carefully. "Has he ever reached out like this before?"

"Never." She set the glass down, her hands restless now. "We've barely communicated at all since I left for college. Just twice in the past year, and it’s always these strained and awkward phone calls.” She trailed off, the old pain surfacing. "Things with me and him got strained pretty quickly after Jane went missing. He…well, let's just say he found comfort in a bottle instead of family, and I found it in forensic pathology. Not exactly compatible coping mechanisms."

Javier took her hand, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on her palm. "Have you read the diary?"

"Most of it," Addison admitted. "But I've only managed the first few entries. It's harder than I expected, seeing her handwriting, hearing her voice in those pages." She shook her head. "And every time I try to continue, something interrupts—a case, a call, my own cowardice..."

"It's not cowardice to protect yourself from pain," Javier said gently. “Especially something as personal as that.”

"Isn't it?" She met his gaze directly now. "I've built my entire career around facing the darkest truths, finding answers for families like mine. But when it comes to my own sister, I'm... hesitating."

"It's different when it's personal. You know that better than anyone."

Addison nodded, acknowledging the truth in his words. "The thing is, I keep feeling like there's something I'm missing. Why would my father send me Jane's diary now, after fifteen years? What changed? What does he want me to see in it?"

"Maybe he's finally ready to talk about what happened," Javier suggested. "People carry guilt in strange ways. Maybe this is his attempt to bridge the gap between you."

"Maybe." But Addison didn't sound convinced. "Or maybe he knows something about her disappearance that he's never shared. Maybe he’s feeling guilty."

The unspoken implication hung in the air between them. Javier's expression grew serious. "You think your father might have been involved?"

"I don't know what to think," Addison admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I've never let myself consider that possibility before. He was devastated when she disappeared—we both were. He fell apart completely. But lately, I've been wondering if his collapse might have been from guilt as much as grief. It’s a terrible thought, but…there it is."

Javier was silent for a moment, processing this revelation. "What does your instinct tell you?" he finally asked.

Addison closed her eyes briefly, considering the question. "My instinct tells me that there's more to Jane's disappearance than a random abduction. That someone knew something—maybe still knows something. I have names, as I’ve told you—Saul Osborne and Darren Iverly, again, as you know—but they’ve come to nothing. The letters dropped off randomly from people…people I assumed were Osborne. And now this…the diary. It all seems to be pointing to something…to someone. And that my father, with his drinking and his silence, has been hiding something all these years."

When she opened her eyes again, she found Javier studying her intently, his expression thoughtful rather than judgmental. "Why are you telling me this now?" he asked quietly.

The question caught her off guard. Why now, indeed? They'd been partners for years, lovers for months. She could have shared these suspicions at any point.

"Because of Holbrook," she realized, the answer coming to her as she spoke. "Watching him die—seeing someone's life end right in front of me—it made me think about all the questions I still have, all the things I don't know." She took a shaky breath. "And because what's happening between us, you and me... it matters to me. It matters more than I've let myself admit."

Javier's expression softened. "It matters to me too."

"I need you to know everything," she continued, finding her momentum now. "Not just the parts of me that are easy to share. I need you to understand why I wake up from nightmares about Jane, why I sometimes pull away when things get too close, too real." She met his gaze directly. "Because I'm in love with you, Javier. And I can't fully give myself to this relationship—to us—while I'm still carrying all these unanswered questions about Jane."

The words hung in the air between them, her declaration of love mingled with the pain of her past. Javier didn't speak immediately, and for a moment, Addison felt a flicker of fear that she'd said too much, revealed too many of the broken pieces she carried.

Then he reached for her, drawing her back into his arms with such tenderness that she felt her eyes burn with unexpected tears.

"I'm in love with you too, Addison Shine," he said, his voice low and certain. "Every complicated, brilliant, haunted...and weird part of you." He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Including the part that needs to know what happened to your sister."

Relief washed through her, loosening something that had been tightly coiled in her chest. "You don't think I'm crazy? For suspecting my own father?" Ah, there it is, she thought. You finally said it.

"I think you're an exceptional investigator who's never stopped looking for the truth," Javier replied. "And I think that if your instincts are telling you there's more to Jane's story, then there probably is."

Addison rested her head against his shoulder again, allowing herself to absorb the comfort of his understanding. Outside, the rain continued its gentle percussion against the windows, and Snape had relocated to settle at their feet, apparently satisfied that the serious conversation wasn't a threat to his comfort.

"What are you going to do?" Javier asked after a moment.

"I need to finish reading the diary," Addison said, the certainty growing as she spoke. "Like really read it. As if it were a piece of evidence from a case. All of it, no matter how difficult. And then I need to confront my father—in person, where he can't avoid me."

"He still lives in the same place?"

"As far as I know. Same house where we all lived together, before..." She trailed off, the memories too painful to articulate fully.

Javier's arms tightened around her. "Whatever you decide to do, I'm with you. You know that, right?"

"I hoped you would be," she admitted, "but I wasn't sure how you'd feel about me reopening old wounds—especially ones that might lead to places neither of us expects."

"Addison," Javier said, pulling back slightly to meet her gaze, "I've watched you solve impossible cases, face down killers, and make connections no one else could see. If anyone can find out what happened to Jane, it's you." His expression grew serious. "And if your father does know something—if he's been hiding the truth all these years—then he needs to answer for that."

Addison nodded, gratitude and determination mingling within her. For so long, she'd carried the weight of Jane's disappearance alone, building walls around that particular pain to protect herself and others from its sharp edges.

"Thank you," she said simply.

"For what?"

"For not telling me to let it go. For not saying it was too long ago, or that I should focus on the future instead of the past." She smiled slightly. "A lot of people would have."

"I’d think by now you’d understand that I’m not like most people.”

“True,” she said.

They sat together in comfortable silence for a while, the rain providing a soothing backdrop to their thoughts. Addison felt lighter somehow, despite the difficult conversation. The burden wasn't gone, but it was shared now, the weight distributed across stronger shoulders than hers alone.

Finally, Javier shifted slightly, his expression growing thoughtful. "When do you want to start?"

"Start what?"

"Reading the diary. Investigating." A small smile touched his lips. "Finding Jane."

Addison felt a surge of emotion—gratitude, love, and a cautious hope she hadn't allowed herself to feel in years. "You really mean that, don't you? You want to help me look for answers."

"Of course I do." He brushed a strand of hair from her face with gentle fingers.

“Even if it’s in private and we have to keep it from Loomis?”

“Yes, even then.”

The simple declaration, offered without hesitation or qualification, touched something deep within her. For most of her adult life, Addison had been the one pursuing answers for others, bringing closure to families torn apart by violence and uncertainty. The idea of someone being equally committed to her own search for truth was almost overwhelming.

Javier pulled her closer, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple, then looked directly into her eyes. "If you really want to figure out what happened to her... what do you need from me?"

The question was simple but held a promise wrapped into seven simple words. Addison looked at the man beside her—her partner, her lover, and now her ally in the most personal investigation of her life—and felt something shift inside her. Not a resolution, not yet, but the first tentative stirrings of hope.

"I need you to be exactly who you are," she answered finally. "Someone who doesn't look away from the truth, no matter how difficult it might be. Someone who understands that some mysteries demand answers no matter what."

Javier covered her hand with his own, his expression solemn. "Then that's who I'll be."

Outside, the rain began to ease, the steady downpour softening to a gentle patter against the windows. Inside, wrapped in the warmth of understanding and shared purpose, Addison felt the first real stirrings of peace she'd known in weeks—perhaps in years.

Tomorrow would bring its own challenges. The diary waited to be properly investigated, its pages potentially holding clues she'd missed—whether consciously or unconsciously. Her father waited to be confronted, and Jane's ghost waited, as she always had, for Addison to find the truth that had eluded her for so long.

But tonight, in this moment, Addison allowed herself to exist fully in the present—with this man who accepted every part of her, even the broken pieces she'd hidden away for so long. Whatever tomorrow brought, she wouldn't face it alone.

And for now, that was enough.

NOW AVAILABLE!

FIND OUT

(An Addison Shine FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 9)

“This is an excellent book… When you start reading, be sure you don’t have to wake up early!”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

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.

Future books in the series will soon be available!

“This book moved very fast and every page was exciting. Plenty of dialogue, you absolutely love the characters, and you were rooting for the good guy throughout the whole story… I look forward to reading the next in the series.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“Kate did an amazing job on this book and I was hooked from the first chapter!”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“I really enjoyed this book. The characters were authentic, and I see the bad guys as something we hear about daily on the news... Looking forward to book 2.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“This was a really good book. The main characters were real, flawed and human. The story went along quickly and wasn't mired in too many unnecessary details. I really enjoyed it.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“Alexa Chase is headstrong, impatient, but most of all brave with a capital B. She never, repeat never, backs down until the bad guys are put where they belong. Clearly five stars!”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“Captivating and riveting serial murder with a twist of the macabre… Very well done.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“WOW what a great read! Talk about a diabolical killer! Really enjoyed this book. Looking forward to reading others by this author as well.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“Page turner for sure. Great characters and relationships. I got into the middle of this story and couldn’t put it down. Looking forward to more from Kate Bold.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“Hard to put down. It has an excellent plot and has the right amount of suspense. I really enjoyed this book.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“Extremely well written, and well worth buying and reading. I can't wait to read book two!”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

FIND OUT

(An Addison Shine FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 9)

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).

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)