F I N D

T R U T H

(An Addison Shine Mystery—Book 11)

K a t e   B o l d

Kate Bold

Bestselling author Kate Bold is the author of numerous series in the mystery and thriller genres, including Meg Thorne, Heather King, Brynn Justice, Beth Drake, Maggie Flight, Addison Shine, Barren Pines, Nina Veil, Nora Price, Kelsey Hawk, Alexa Chase, Ashley Hope, Camille Grace, Harley Cole, Kaylie Brooks, Eve Hope, Dylan First, Lauren Lamb series.

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.

SERIES BY KATE BOLD

MEG THORNE

HEATHER KING

BRYNN JUSTICE

BETH DRAKE

MAGGIE FLIGHT

ADDISON SHINE

BARREN PINES

NINA VEIL

NORA PRICE

KELSEY HAWK

ALEXA CHASE

ASHLEY HOPE

CAMILLE GRACE

HARLEY COLE

KAYLIE BROOKS

EVE HOPE

DYLAN FIRST

LAUREN LAMB

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

PROLOGUE

The rehearsal studio was quiet except for the sound of piano keys. David Montgomery sat at his Steinway concert grand, working through Chopin's Ballade No. 1 in G minor. The mahogany-paneled room had amazing acoustics, and the recessed lighting cast a warm glow over the polished instrument. Through the windows, Seattle's skyline stretched out in the distance. It was one of David’s favorite spots in the city…probably the world. And he’d seen a lot of it.

David's fingers moved across the keys with practiced precision, though he knew this would be one of the last times he'd play this piece properly. The neurological diagnosis six months ago had been clear: primary lateral sclerosis, a rare form of ALS that would gradually steal his motor control. His hands, which had earned him three Grammy Awards and a Kennedy Center Honor, would eventually fail him completely.

Tomorrow, he would announce his retirement. After forty years of performing in venues from Carnegie Hall to the Sydney Opera House, his career would be over. The thought sat heavy in his chest as he reached the climactic passage of the Ballade, his fingers navigating the complex runs that had challenged pianists for over a century. The retirement announcement would be followed by a very select twenty-city world tour, starting in Stockholm and ending here, at home, in Seattle.

The final notes faded into silence. David sat still at the bench, reluctant to break the connection with the keys. The studio returned to its usual quiet, broken only by distant traffic and the soft hum of the climate control system. He knew the rehearsal space would be his until his dying breath, but he also knew that it would not hold quite the same reverence after he retired.

A draft brushed against his neck. David frowned. The studio's climate control was carefully maintained, every door and window sealed for optimal conditions. A draft meant something was open that shouldn't be. No one had been in for the past three hours, not since he’d had the delivery of purer tea from the tea shop a few blocks down.

He stood slowly; his legs stiff from hours of practice. The studio felt different now, the peaceful atmosphere disturbed. David walked to the entrance and checked the main door. Locked, just as he'd left it. He moved to the windows and found them all sealed tight.

The draft came again, stronger this time. The air was moving through the studio in a way that suggested an open entrance somewhere behind him. But he'd already checked everything.

David turned slowly. The studio's perfect acoustics picked up the sound of breathing that wasn't his own.

Then, without any warning or preamble, a figure stepped out from the shadows near the piano, moving with deliberate calm. Average height, unremarkable clothes, forgettable face. But the syringe in his hand caught the light like crystal.

"I'm sorry," the intruder said, his voice carrying genuine regret. "I truly am. But you have to understand, Mr. Montgomery…this is necessary."

David's heart pounded as he stared at the syringe filled with clear liquid. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He thought of his cellphone, back by the piano in his messenger bag.

"You're going to play again," the intruder continued, his tone almost conversational. "I know about your diagnosis…about what it means. But I can make it go away.”

“I don’t know how you got in here or what you think—

“You have to trust me! This is the only way to preserve what you are, what you've accomplished. Your music is too important to let it die with your disease."

The syringe caught the light as the intruder came rushing forward, raising it like a dagger.

"No…please," David rasped. He tried to scream for help but the absurdity of the moment was just too much for him. His brain seemed not to be able to process what exactly was happening.

David backed away, but there was nowhere to go. The studio that had been his sanctuary now felt like a trap as the intruder came face to face with him. A strong arm gripped his shoulder and pushed his back hard against the wall.

"You can keep playing forever… if that’s what you want.”

It did not matter that David had no idea how to respond to this; he wouldn’t have had the chance to speak, anyway.

The syringe descended toward David's neck, and in that moment, he understood that his music would indeed live forever, just not in the way he had imagined.

CHAPTER ONE

The coffee in Addison's mug had gone cold hours ago, but she kept drinking it anyway. The stale taste matched her mood as she stared at the whiteboard that dominated one wall of her cramped office. To anyone else, the board would likely resemble the work of a madman—newspaper clippings held up by magnets alongside handwritten notes that seemed to follow no logical order. No columns, no rows, just her scrawled handwriting in several different colors of marker. Javier had once told her that looking at her boards gave him raging migraines, and she couldn't blame him. But to Addison, every connection made perfect sense. It was like reading sheet music; chaotic to the untrained eye, but a symphony to those who understood the language.

The Seattle field office buzzed with its usual morning activity outside her door. Phones rang, keyboards clattered, and conversations drifted through the thin walls. Addison had learned to tune it all out, creating a bubble of concentration around herself that could withstand even the most persistent interruptions. Her office was small and utilitarian, with a standard-issue desk and fluorescent lighting that made everything look slightly sickly. She'd tried to personalize it with a few horror movie posters—The Thing and Alien currently watched over her desk—but the space still felt temporary, like she was just passing through.

The whiteboard was divided into three distinct sections, though the jumble of notes and dates made it look like one massive web of scribbles. The center section was devoted to Jane—and had been for about a year or so. Addison's throat tightened every time she looked at her sister's school photo. As of about a week and a half ago, she'd added a map marked with red dots. Each dot represented a location where the Boyer family had lived, and where young girls had disappeared. The pattern was becoming clearer with each piece of information Hannah Grant sent her way. The Boyer family—highly religious, living off the grid, constantly moving across state lines—had left a trail of missing girls in their wake. The timeline aligned perfectly with Jane's abduction thirteen years ago, when Addison was supposed to be watching her for just a few minutes while their family shopped for Christmas presents. It had all come about from a name she'd found in Jane's diary: Leslie Boyer. And now that trail had taken up a nice chunk of real estate on her wide board.

The Boyer family investigation was now official, which meant Addison found herself pushed to the periphery of a case that was more personal to her than any other. She was listed as a consulting agent due to her "emotional investment," a bureaucratic way of saying she couldn't be trusted to remain objective about a case that might be linked to her own sister's disappearance. Addison understood the rules and even appreciated them, but waiting for updates felt like she was slowly drowning.

The right side of the very same whiteboard belonged to Fearmonger. Twelve victims over the past ten months, all found without any visible cause of death. The media had latched onto the idea that he could literally scare people to death, which was sensationalist garbage, but the truth wasn't much less disturbing. Whatever method he used left no trace, no evidence, no clues beyond the fact that healthy people were simply dying. The best guess at this point was that he was using a thallium-esque toxin that mimicked sudden organ failure.

Addison had spent months trying to find a pattern in his victim selection. Age, gender, profession, location—nothing connected them in any meaningful way. She'd created charts, timelines, and geographic maps until her eyes burned and her head pounded. The randomness was maddening, like trying to solve a puzzle where half the pieces belonged to different boxes.

She took another sip of cold coffee and grimaced. The break room coffee was terrible on its best days, but when it went cold, it became something that could probably be used as an industrial cleaner. That’s why she had her own private pot in her office. She’d brewed a cup of nice, expensive coffee this morning but her current cup had sat mostly forgotten.

The photos of Fearmonger's victims stared back at her from the board. Twelve faces, twelve lives cut short by someone who remained a ghost. The victims ranged in age from twenty-three to sixty-seven, included both men and women, and came from all walks of life. A college student, a retired teacher, a construction worker, a librarian. The only thing they seemed to have in common was that they all seemed to have died of plain old fright.

Addison stood and stretched, her back protesting after hours hunched over case files. The stack of folders on her desk had grown to alarming proportions, each one representing a dead end or a lead that had fizzled out. She'd read through every witness statement, every coroner's report, every piece of evidence until she could recite them from memory. And still, Fearmonger remained a shadow.

Maybe she needed to step back. Sometimes the answer only became clear when you stopped looking so hard for it. She started gathering up the files, ready to put them away for a while and tackle some of her more mundane cases. Serial killers got all the attention, but the FBI dealt with plenty of insurance fraud and white-collar crime that actually paid the bills.

As she reached for another file, something nagged at her. A thought that had been lurking at the edge of her consciousness, too slippery to grasp. She paused, her hand hovering over the folder.

What if the lack of a pattern was the pattern?

The thought hit her like a physical blow. She'd been so focused on finding connections between the victims that she'd missed what they didn't have in common. Or rather, what they all lacked.

Addison dropped back into her chair and pulled the files toward her again. This time, she wasn't looking for similarities. She was looking for…absences, she supposed.

She flipped through the files of the first victim until she found what she was looking for. Medical history: practically nonexistent. A few childhood vaccinations, one emergency room visit for a broken arm when he was twelve, and nothing else. No regular checkups, no prescriptions, no specialists.

Victim number two, Sarah Hendricks, age twenty-eight. Same story. Minimal medical records, no regular doctor, no history of seeking treatment even when friends and family urged her to see someone about her anxiety and depression.

Addison's pulse quickened as she worked through the files. David Price, forty-three, hadn't seen a doctor in over fifteen years despite family concerns about his increasingly erratic behavior. Jennifer Walsh, fifty-six, had refused treatment for what appeared to be severe depression following her divorce. Robert Kim, thirty-one, had ignored persistent headaches and mood swings that his coworkers attributed to stress.

All of these were details that would usually be left out of a standard report. But because the Fearmonger case was such a whale for the bureau at the moment, the levels of research they had taken had become far beyond what was normal.

And now she could see at least some kind of pattern. It was right there, hidden in plain sight. Well, not in plain sight, but it was there. Every single victim had an extremely thin medical history. They weren't just healthy, though. No, it seemed like most of them had actively avoided medical care. As she dug deeper, she saw that even when some of them had been faced with clear mental health issues, they refused to seek treatment.

It felt flimsy at first but maybe there was something there. And with the Fearmonger case, nothing that looked remotely like a link or a lead could be ignored.

Addison leaned back in her chair, her mind racing. Half of Fearmonger's victims had shown signs of mental health problems that went untreated. The other half simply never went to doctors, period. They were all united by their distrust of the medical establishment, their refusal to seek help even when they needed it.

But how would Fearmonger know this? Medical records were protected by privacy laws. Even if he had access to them somehow, the absence of records wouldn't show up in any database. You couldn't search for people who didn't go to doctors.

She stared at the board, and then to the stack of files on her desk. There were answers here somewhere. Fearmonger wasn't just randomly selecting victims. He was specifically targeting people who wouldn't have their deaths thoroughly investigated from a medical standpoint. People whose families would accept "natural causes" because they'd been expecting something bad to happen for years.

It was brilliant, in a twisted way…if she was indeed correct about this. By choosing victims who avoided doctors, Fearmonger ensured that their deaths would be viewed as inevitable rather than suspicious. No one would push for extensive testing or second opinions because these people had been walking time bombs, refusing the help that might have saved them.

The question that remained was how he identified them. How did he know which people in Seattle distrusted doctors enough to make them perfect victims? That was the key to finding him, and Addison could feel the answer lurking just beyond her reach.

She picked up her phone to call Javier, then hesitated. He was working another case, and she didn't want to pull him away unless she was certain. Besides, while she was now actively a part of the Fearmonger investigation, she knew better than to let it take lead priority. There was an enormous team piled with bureau resources to handle that.

Still, this felt like the break they'd been waiting for.

If she was right about this—and honestly, the verdict was still out on that—then it seemed Fearmonger had made his first mistake. He'd left a pattern, even if it was defined by absence.

 She got to her feet quickly, wanting to share this new theory with Javier before she managed to convince herself that she was simply grabbing at straws.

CHAPTER TWO

Addison found Javier in the break room, staring dubiously at the coffee machine that had been making suspicious grinding noises for the past week. His dark hair was slightly mussed, and she could tell from the way he was standing that he'd been hunched over paperwork for too long. Even after all these months together, she still felt that small flutter in her stomach when she looked at him.

"Please tell me you're not actually considering drinking whatever that machine is producing," she said, leaning against the doorframe. "I had some this morning, and I think it took at least three years off of my life."

Javier looked up and smiled, the expression transforming his face from tired to something warmer. "I was weighing my options. Death by caffeine withdrawal versus death by mystery break room beverage."

"I've got decent coffee in my office. Colombian blend, not the industrial sludge they stock in here." She held up her mug. "Plus, I need to run something by you."

"Your coffee and your theories. You’re spoiling me." He followed her back to her office, and she noticed the way he automatically checked the hallway to make sure no one was watching them too closely. They'd gotten better at maintaining professional boundaries at work, but it still required conscious effort.

Once her door was closed, Javier snuck a quick kiss before settling into the chair across from her desk. She poured him a cup of coffee from her small pot, and he accepted it gratefully. He took a sip and sighed appreciatively. "Okay, this definitely beats whatever was lurking in that machine. So…what's that look in your eyes?"

"What look?"

"The same one you get when you're about to tell me something that's going to make me question my life choices." But he was smiling as he said it, and she could see the genuine interest in his expression. This was the part of their relationship that worked so well—he trusted her instincts even when they led them down rabbit holes. And God help him, it seemed that a lot of her snark and sarcasm was rubbing off on him.

Addison turned her chair so they were both facing the whiteboard. "Look at the Fearmonger victims again. Tell me what you see."

Javier studied the board, his eyes moving from photo to photo. She watched him squint at her scattered notes, as he looked back and forth between them and the seemingly random collection of faces. "Twelve people with nothing in common except how they died. Or rather, how they didn't die, since we can't figure out what killed them."

"That's what I thought, too. But what if I told you they do have something in common, just not what we were looking for? Something I don’t even know anyone would think to look for?"

She walked him through her discovery, pointing out the thin medical histories, the pattern of avoided treatment, the distrust of doctors that ran through every single case. Javier listened without interrupting, occasionally nodding or leaning forward to study a particular file more closely. As she spoke it all out loud, she wavered back and forth over whether or not she thought the theory had legs or not.

"Son of a bitch," he said when she finished. Clearly, Javier thought it was promising. "How did we miss that?"

"Because we were looking for connections between the victims, not absences in their records,” she said. “We were trying to figure out what brought them together, not what kept them apart from something else."

Javier set down his coffee and rubbed his forehead. "So, this theory would state that Fearmonger is specifically targeting people who don't go to doctors. People whose deaths won't be questioned as thoroughly because everyone already expected them to die young from neglecting their health."

"Exactly. It's actually pretty brilliant…if that’s what he’s doing. Choosing victims whose families have been worried about them for years, people who've been refusing help for obvious problems. When they turn up dead, it looks inevitable rather than suspicious."

"But that brings us to the million-dollar question." Javier leaned back in his chair. "How the hell is he finding them? It's not like there's a database of people who avoid medical care. And these victims didn't know each other, didn't move in the same circles."

Addison had been wrestling with the same question since her breakthrough. "That's what we need to figure out. There has to be some way he's identifying potential targets, some common thread we're still missing." She shrugged and added: “And there’s also the whole business of most of them looking absolute terrified when their bodies are found. That doesn’t exactly line up, either.”

"Yeah. There is that. But if we look at this medical approach…it could be occupational. Maybe he works somewhere that gives him access to medical information."

"Possible. Or maybe it's more personal. Someone who interacts with people regularly, someone they might confide in about their distrust of doctors."

Javier was about to respond when Addison's phone buzzed on her desk. She glanced at the screen and saw a text from Diana Loomis's assistant: AD Loomis needs to see you and Agent Esposito in her office ASAP.

"Gotham needs us," Addison muttered, showing Javier the message.

They exited her office together and made their way through the maze of cubicles and offices to the elevators. They ventured a single floor up and came to Diana Loomis's corner office. The Assistant Director was on the phone when they arrived, gesturing for them to sit while she finished her conversation. Loomis was in her early fifties, with steel-gray hair pulled back in a practical ponytail and the kind of sharp eyes that missed nothing. She'd been Addison's champion from the beginning, seeing something in her that reminded her of her own younger self. Loomis looked out for her, but also didn't baby her. Actually, far from it.

She hurried up her conversation and ended the call. She immediately redirected her attention to Addison and Javier, business as always.

"Sorry about that," Loomis said. "Crisis management with the media relations team. They're having a field day with this new case, and I need it contained before it turns into a circus. Which just happens to be why I’ve called for you two."

"What’s the case?" Javier asked.

Loomis pulled a file from her desk and opened it. "It’s a bizarre one.” She smirked at Addison and said, “Seems right up your alley. Bizarre doesn't begin to cover it. We've got two deaths in the past week, both with the same impossible circumstances. The bodies found partially frozen in normal temperature environments."

Addison leaned forward and raised an eyebrow. "Partially frozen?"

"Yes. That's the part that has everyone scratching their heads. The victims appear to have died from extreme hypothermia, but they were found in rooms that were perfectly normal temperature. No signs of any cooling equipment, no dry ice, nothing that could explain how they ended up in that condition."

Loomis spread out crime scene photos on her desk. Addison’s full attention was instantly locked in. "The first victim was Margaret Hawthorn, sixty-two, found in her living room three days ago. Neighbors called for a wellness check when she didn't show up for her weekly book club. Responding officers found her sitting in her armchair, looking peaceful."

Addison studied the photos. The woman looked like she was sleeping, her face serene and unmarked. But there was something about the positioning, the way her hands were folded, that seemed too perfect. That, and the blue tinge to her skin.

"The second victim," Loomis continued, "was found this morning. David Montgomery, sixty-three, renowned pianist. His cleaning service discovered him in his private rehearsal space. Same situation: body temperature consistent with severe hypothermia, but the room was a comfortable seventy-two degrees."

"David Montgomery," Javier repeated. "I know that name. He’s sort of a big deal, right?”

"In the classical music world yes. He was supposed to announce his retirement today, actually. Instead, his publicist had to issue a statement about his death. The media is already calling it suspicious, especially given his high profile."

"Any witnesses? Signs of forced entry?"

"None. Both locations were secure, no signs of struggle, no evidence of anyone else being present. The local ME is completely baffled. She's never seen anything like it—bodies that appear to have frozen to death from the inside out, but with no external source of cold."

“Is the body still on-site?” Addison asked.

“Yes. And I'm assigning this to you two. Local PD is out of their depth, and frankly, so is everyone else. I need someone who can think outside the box, who won't get hung up on the impossibility of the situation. These frozen deaths are getting media attention, and I need them solved before someone starts claiming we've got some kind of a supernatural killer on our hands." Loomis closed the Hawthorn file and handed it to Addison. "Get to it.”

Addison tucked the file under her arm, her mind already racing with possibilities. Two victims, both found frozen in normal environments. She could understand why a case like this would be a magnet for media attention; the headlines practically wrote themselves.

They left Loomis's office and headed back through the bullpen toward the elevator. Addison could feel the familiar excitement building in her chest, the thrill of a new puzzle to solve. But underneath it was something else—a warning to herself not to let the unique nature of these murders fool her. Yes, in her warped mind, this was going to be a cool case (ha ha, oh that’s hilarious, she thought to herself) but she knew she’d have to constantly remind herself that they were dealing with people’s lives and trying to stop a killer.

"So much for working on the Fearmonger theory," Javier said as they waited for the elevator.

"Well, it’s not like that case is going anywhere. And besides…this case is—”

“Don’t say cool.”

She smiled at him and shook her head. “Of course not. I do have some tact.”

CHAPTER THREE

The rehearsal studio looked very close to how Addison had imagined it. It was a serene, expensive, and completely undisturbed space. Except for the dead man at the piano. Addison and Javier stood in the doorway, taking in the scene before stepping inside. The mahogany-paneled walls absorbed sound, creating an almost oppressive quiet that was broken only by the low murmur of crime scene technicians already on the scene, and the occasional flash of a camera.

David Montgomery sat slumped over the keys of his Steinway concert grand, his hands positioned as if he'd been playing when death took him. The recessed lighting cast warm shadows across the Persian rugs scattered on the hardwood floor, and through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Seattle's skyline provided a backdrop that seemed almost mocking in its normalcy.

"Hell of a place to die," Javier said quietly, pulling on latex gloves.

Addison was already moving toward the piano, her eyes scanning every detail of the room. The air conditioning hummed softly, maintaining the perfect temperature and humidity for the expensive instrument. There were no signs of struggle, no overturned furniture, no indication that anything violent had occurred in this peaceful space. It was like a museum showroom, and Montgomery was a wax figure.

"Agents?” A uniformed officer approached them, notebook in hand. "I'm Officer Martin. We were first on scene."

"What's the timeline?" Addison asked, not taking her eyes off Montgomery's body.

"The cleaning service arrived at nine this morning for their weekly appointment. They have a key and security code. The lady I spoke with said they’ve been coming here for three years, once a week. She said she found the victim exactly as you see him now and called it in immediately."

"Do we know if anyone else has access to the studio?" Javier asked.

"Building manager says no. Montgomery was very particular about his privacy. The cleaning service comes on Thursday mornings, and that's the only time anyone else is supposed to be in here."

"What about security cameras?" Javier asked.

"Building has them in the lobby and parking garage, but not on the individual floors. This is a high-end artist space—tenants pay extra for privacy and sometimes that means they don’t even want security cameras observing them."

Addison approached Montgomery's body carefully, studying his position and the peaceful expression on his face. There were no defensive wounds on his hands, no signs that he'd fought off an attacker. His clothes were undisturbed and his hair was neatly combed.

"No signs of a struggle," she murmured to Javier. "Which suggests he was anesthetized first."

“First? Before what?”

“Not sure. Let’s see if we can find out.”

She pulled on fresh gloves and gently touched Montgomery's forehead. Even through the latex, she could feel the unnatural cold radiating from his skin. But it wasn't the surface cold of someone who'd been exposed to freezing temperatures—it was deeper, as if the chill was coming from inside his body. She then placed her fingers to the underside of his jaw and felt the same thing.

"Jesus," she breathed, pulling her hand back.

"What is it?" Javier moved closer.

"Feel his submental area. Carefully."

Javier placed his gloved hand against Montgomery's skin and immediately jerked it back. "That's not normal, is it?

“That's not natural at all," she agreed.

Officer Martin looked confused. "What do you mean? Aside from the freezing part… is there something else?"

"The freezing that killed him was internal," Addison explained. “His core body temperature dropped far enough to kill him, but it happened from the inside out." She looked around the room again, noting the comfortable temperature. "There's no way to achieve this kind of hypothermia in a room this warm without some kind of advanced technique."

The door opened and another officer entered. Once again, the sound of every movement was either muted or completely swallowed. It gave the scene an eerie feel. "The medical examiner's on his way up," he announced.

Addison nodded, still studying Montgomery's body. The positioning bothered her—too perfect, too peaceful. Most people didn't die sitting upright at a piano, hands still positioned over the keys. It suggested the killer had arranged the scene after death. And if that was the case, there was no way Montogomery’s hair would be so perfect. It made her wonder if the killer had made sure to make his victim look as nice as possible, stationed behind the instrument he loved so dearly.

"Javi," she said, "I need to get into the exam room with the ME on this one.”

He chuckled. “You know, sometimes it seems like you think I'll do anything to get back in an examination room."

"He’s frozen from the inside. There’s no way in hell I’m missing out of that autopsy."

The medical examiner arrived a few minutes later, as Addison and Javier continued to comb the space for clues. The ME was a grim-looking man in his fifties who introduced himself as Dr. Holden. He spent several minutes examining the body, making notes, and taking photographs. When he was done, he looked to Addison and Javier.

“Are you two good here? Am I okay to move the body?”

“Yes,” Addison said. “And I’d like to be there for the autopsy.”

He nodded. Addison didn’t personally know Holden but she did know that her name was well known at every coroner’s office in the city. Most of them had once been her old stomping grounds.

"I've never seen anything like this," he told Addison.

“Same here. Internal hypothermia without environmental cause. It shouldn't be possible."

"Well... if you want in on the autopsy, meet me at the coroner’s office in about an hour. I think it’s safe to say this is going to take priority over everything else.”

“Is Hawthorn still there by any chance?”

"No. She was released to her family yesterday. But I'll give you all the records and files. Also, the PD tried reaching out to his next of kin, but they're all out of the county, from what we can tell. We're going to implement a reporting ban on this for now. And if you think Hawthorn might be linked, we should maybe keep a lid on that, too. For now, anyway."

“Yeah, good thinking.”

“Well…see you in a bit,” Holden said.

Addison felt the familiar excitement of returning to her roots, the clinical precision of an examination room where answers waited in tissue and bone. With a smile to Javier and with a dead man still perched at a piano, she said, "I'll be there."

***

The King County Medical Examiner's office smelled exactly as Addison remembered—disinfectant and death, with an underlying chemical tang that never quite left the building. She understood just how morbid it was that she missed the smell of it, but she couldn’t help it. She supposed it was just nostalgia.

She'd changed into scrubs as soon as they arrived, moving through the building as if she’d not been gone for several years. She’d felt a slight chill as she’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail, the familiar ritual of preparation bringing back muscle memory from her days as a medical examiner.

Dr. Holden was already prepped when she entered the autopsy suite, David Montgomery's body laid out on the stainless steel table under bright lights. She could see Javier through the observation window above, settling into a chair. He looked resigned...  maybe even a tad uncomfortable. He'd never enjoyed watching autopsies, but he'd learned that some of their best insights came from these clinical examinations.

"Ready to see something impossible?" Holden asked. He cleared his throat as Addison stepped up to the examination table. Slowly and with a strange sort of reverence, he started the digital recorder and began. "This is Dr. Marcus Holden, Chief Medical Examiner, King County. Present is Agent Addison Shine, FBI. We are beginning the autopsy of David Montgomery, male, age sixty-three, found deceased in his rehearsal studio."

Holden began the external examination, noting Montgomery's general condition and the absence of any obvious trauma. "No defensive wounds, no signs of struggle. Pupils are fixed and dilated, consistent with death. Body temperature at time of discovery was sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit."

"That's nearly thirty degrees below normal," Addison observed, leaning closer to examine Montgomery's fingernails. "And look at the color under his nails—blue tinge, consistent with severe hypothermia."

"But no environmental cause," Holden added for the recorder. "Room temperature where the victim was discovered was a constant seventy-two degrees, maintained by climate control."

The Y-incision revealed the true extent of the impossible. As Holden opened Montgomery's chest cavity, they could both see the crystalline formations that had formed throughout his organs. His heart, lungs, and liver showed extensive damage from ice crystal formation, far beyond what would be expected even from extreme environmental exposure. Addison had never seen anything like it. The closest had been in textbooks when she was still at university but what she was currently seeing was even more severe than that.

"Jesus Christ," Holden muttered, then caught himself. "Sorry. Dr. Shine, are you seeing this?"

Addison moved closer, studying the tissue damage patterns. "The crystallization is extensive, yes…but look at the formation patterns. This isn't slow freezing like you'd see with gradual hypothermia. These crystals formed rapidly. It happened fast."

"Rapid crystallization," Holden repeated for the recorder. "Tissue damage suggests near-instantaneous freezing of internal organs."

They worked in silence for several minutes, taking samples and photographs. The damage was unlike anything either of them had seen in their combined decades of experience. Montgomery's organs looked like they'd been flash-frozen while he was still alive. In an odd way, just knowing that the more well-seasoned Holden was as shocked and appalled as she was helped to keep Addison centered.

"The tissue damage patterns," Addison said, examining a sample under the magnifying glass, "they're too uniform for natural hypothermia. This was induced by some kind of advanced technique."

Holden nodded grimly. "Based on what I'm seeing here, I can pretty much guarantee that the killer used a sedative first. Probably something like propofol, given the peaceful positioning and lack of struggle, before administering this freezing agent. I mean, the killer posed him right up at his piano."

"That confirms my theory from the scene," Addison said. "No one sits peacefully while they're being frozen to death. He was unconscious when it happened."

"The question is what kind of freezing agent could achieve this," Holden continued, taking more tissue samples. "This level of rapid internal crystallization...  it's not something you could accomplish with dry ice or liquid nitrogen applied externally."

Addison studied the heart tissue, noting how the ice crystals had formed in perfect, devastating patterns. "It had to be injected directly. Something that could rapidly lower core body temperature from the inside."

"I'll run a full toxicology panel," Holden promised, sealing the tissue samples. "Blood, urine, vitreous fluid—anything that might show traces of whatever was used. But I have to warn you, if this is some kind of experimental compound, it might not show up on standard tests."

"How long for results?"

"Standard tox screen will be back in forty-eight hours...  as I’m sure you remember,” he said with a thin smile. “If we need specialized testing, it could take longer." Holden looked up at her, his expression troubled. "Agent Shine, in thirty years of doing this job, I've never seen anything like what was done to this man. Whoever did this has access to some very advanced technology."

Addison nodded, pulling off her gloves as they finished the examination. Through the observation window, she could see Javier checking his phone, probably fielding calls about other cases. But in this case, these impossible deaths felt like the beginning of something much larger than a simple homicide investigation. The method itself was bizarre, yes; but she could only dare to imagine the sort of warped mind that might be behind it.

"I'll get all the lab work to you as soon as it comes back," Holden said, beginning to close the incision. "But based on what we've found here, you're not dealing with a conventional killer."

Addison made her way back to the small locker room and changed back into her street clothes, trying to make sense of what she’d seen. Someone had found a way to freeze people from the inside out, using a technique so advanced that it seemed like the science fiction stories she had always known and loved. But the clinical precision of the method, the careful positioning of the body, and the victim's history of avoiding medical care all pointed to a killer who was methodical, intelligent, and had no problems thinking outside of the box.

She thought about Margaret Hawthorn, the first victim, and wondered what they would find when they examined her body. Two people, both found frozen in impossible circumstances. And if there were two people taken by such radical means, Addison was willing to bet that, no matter what they were dealing with, it was just getting started.

CHAPTER FOUR

Addison had barely stepped back out of the little locker room when Dr. Holden's assistant appeared at her elbow. She and Javier had briefly encountered him when they’d arrived, and he’d been calm and very professional. Now, however—when not in the presence of Holden—he was practically bouncing on his toes with excitement. The young man couldn't have been more than twenty-five, with unruly red hair and thick-rimmed glasses that kept sliding down his nose.

"Dr. Shine!” He pushed his glasses up for the third time in as many seconds. "I figured you were here about the frozen bodies. This is so incredible—I mean, not incredible that people are dead, that's terrible, but the forensic implications are just fascinating."

She raised an eyebrow as she watched the assistant fumble with a stack of files. "And you are?"

"Oh! Sorry, I'm Paul Webb, Dr. Holden's research assistant. I've been following your cases in the field reports. The Helix Pharmaceuticals poisoning case was brilliant—the way you identified the modified allergen was just—"

"Paul," Addison interrupted gently, "did you need something?"

At the same time, Javier came walking down the hallway to join her. He saw that Addison had something of an admirer and smiled wanly, shaking his head.

Paul adjusted his glasses again and held up the files just as Javier joined them. "Right! Yes! Dr. Holden asked me to pull everything we have on Margaret Hawthorn—she was the first victim found in the frozen state. Her body was released to the family yesterday after we completed the autopsy, but I have all the reports right here."

He thrust the files toward Addison with such enthusiasm that several pages scattered to the floor. "Oh no, oh no, sorry!" Marcus dropped to his knees, frantically gathering the papers. "I'm just so excited to be working on something this unique. I mean, internal hypothermia without environmental cause? It's like something out of a science fiction movie, except it's real and someone is actually doing it to people, which is horrible but also—"

"Paul," Javier said, not unkindly, "breathe."

Paul took a deep breath and handed the reorganized file to Addison. She had to bite back a chuckle; the man was like an out-of-context jester. "Sorry. I get a little carried away when we get interesting cases. Most of the time it's just overdoses and car accidents, you know? This is the kind of case that makes you remember why you got into forensic science in the first place."

Addison accepted the file, unable to suppress a small smile. She did understand what he meant, and his enthusiasm was infectious, even if his delivery needed work. "Thank you, Paul. This is exactly what we need."

"If you need anything else, just ask! I've been compiling a database of all the tissue samples and their crystallization patterns. Did you know that the ice crystal formations in both victims show signs of directional freezing? It's almost like the cooling agent was designed to—"

"Paul!” Dr. Holden's voice came from behind them, carrying a note of fond exasperation. "Let the agents review the files before you start theorizing about the methodology."

Paul flushed red and pushed his glasses up again. "Right. Sorry. I'll just...  be in the lab if you need anything." He hurried away, nearly tripping over his own feet in his eagerness to escape.

"He's brilliant," Holden said, watching Paul disappear around a corner. "He just lacks what you might call social calibration. But he's caught details that I've missed, so I keep him around." He laughed at this, but in a way that made Addison think he might actually be serious.

She was already opening the Hawthorn file, scanning the initial report. Margaret Hawthorn, sixty-two, found in her living room three days ago. A celebrated sculptor.”

"Two days prior to Montgomery," Javier corrected, reading over her shoulder.

They found an empty conference room down the hall and spread the Hawthorn files across the table. The crime scene photos showed a woman slumped over in a comfortable-looking armchair, a book placed haphazardly in her lap. Like Montgomery, she appeared peaceful, as if she'd simply fallen asleep.”

"Same positioning," Addison noted. "No signs of struggle, no defensive wounds.”

Javier flipped through the autopsy photos. "And the same internal freezing. Look at this—extensive ice crystal formation throughout her organs."

Addison studied the tissue analysis reports, comparing them to what she'd just observed in Montgomery's autopsy. "The application sites were different, though. Montgomery shows injection sites consistent with neck placement, probably carotid access. Hawthorn’s injection sites are in her forearm."

"Different approach?"

"Different technique. Like the killer was experimenting. Maybe looking to see which would be quickest, more effective." Addison spread out the toxicology reports side by side. "Hawthorn’s blood showed traces of midazolam—that's a sedative, commonly used in medical procedures. Montgomery, we suspect had propofol or something similar.”

“Are those close to the same thing?” Javier asked.

“Basically. Both would render the victim unconscious, but they have different properties, different onset times."

Javier leaned back in his chair. "So, our killer is trying different sedatives, different injection sites. Testing what works best."

"Which suggests these victims are a testing ground for whatever cooling agent he's using." The thought made Addison's stomach turn. Two people had died so someone could perfect their technique. "He's using them as guinea pigs."

She continued reading through Hawthorn’s file, noting details about her background and lifestyle. She looked at the crime scene photos again—Montgomery was at home, but everything they knew about her told her that she was a sculptor. And a fairly well-known one, at that.

"They were both artists," she said. "We know that. But I wonder if there's anything hidden in the fact that Montgomery was killed around his art…but Hawthorn was not."

"Whatever the case, the fact that our killer has a thing for creative types might help us,” Javier said.

Addison thought about the careful positioning of both bodies, the almost reverential way they'd been left behind. "Look at how they were found. Not just peaceful, but...  arranged. Like the killer wanted them to be discovered at peace. In the case of Montgomery, maybe even doing what he loved."

“Well, actually…” Javier said, leaning down to get a closer look at Hawthorn’s body. He then took out his phone and opened the camera, zooming in on the picture and using the camera as a makeshift magnifying glass. “The book she was reading—or, rather, that the killer posed her with. It’s called Sculpture and Soul: Expressing Faith through Sculpture.”

“So, she was posed in connection to something she loved. Maybe…maybe he thinks he's preserving them somehow. Keeping them frozen in their artistic prime. It would really make sense, given Montgomery’s upcoming retirement.”

Addison's phone buzzed, and she glanced at the screen to see a text from Hannah Grant: Another dead end on the Boyer family investigation. Sorry. Will keep trying.

The message hit her like a physical blow, yanking her thoughts away from frozen artists and back to her sister. Jane would have been twenty-six now if she were still alive. She might have been an artist herself—she'd always loved to draw as a child, spending hours with her sketchpad while Addison studied for her medical exams.

"Everything okay?" Javier noticed her sudden distraction.

"Yeah, sorry." Addison put the phone away, but the interruption had shifted something in her thinking. 

She forced herself to focus on the files in front of her. "Let's stick with what we know. Two artists, both killed with some kind of advanced cooling technique, both positioned to look like they died while surrounded by objects related to their passion. The killer is experimenting with different sedatives and injection methods."

"We need to figure out how he's identifying these people. There has to be some way he's finding victims who match his criteria. We can’t send out protections for anyone related to the arts…God, especially not in Seattle."

Addison listened as she scanned Hawthorn’s personal history. Within just a few seconds when something caught her eye. "She taught art classes at a community center in Fremont. Montgomery gave piano lessons to private students. They both had regular contact with people, but in informal settings. Lessons…classes…that sort of thing.”

"That would be a decent hunting ground for sure.”

Before either of them could say anything else, Paul appeared in the doorway again looking slightly less frazzled than before. "Agent Shine? I thought you’d want to know that I started cross-referencing from both victims and already have something noteworthy.”

“Great. What is it?”

“The ice crystal patterns in both victims show signs of a specific type of cryogenic compound. I've never seen anything like it in the literature, but the crystallization suggests it's not just liquid nitrogen or dry ice."

"Do you have any initial thoughts?"

Paul seemed privileged that he’d been asked such a thing. "Something designed specifically for this purpose, I think.. A compound that could freeze tissue rapidly while maintaining cellular integrity. "It's actually quite sophisticated from a biochemical standpoint. Whoever made this knows what they're doing."

Addison exchanged glances with Javier. They weren't just dealing with a killer—they were dealing with someone who had access to advanced chemical knowledge and possibly custom-made compounds. And honestly, for her line of work and the cases Loomis had been lining up for her lately, it was becoming almost par for the course.

"Paul," she said, "I need you to run a comparison against any known cryogenic agents used in medical or research applications. Someone had to learn this technique somewhere."

"Already on it," Paul said, practically glowing with pride. "I'll have a preliminary report by tomorrow morning."

As he left the room, Addison turned back to the files. Two artists, both killed while perfecting someone else's technique.

"I hate to say it,” Javier said, "But if this killer is still experimenting, still refining his technique, there are going to be more bodies."

Addison nodded, but her mind was already racing ahead to the next question: what was he perfecting this technique for? The careful positioning, the artistic victims, the emphasis on preservation—it all pointed to something more than just murder.

Their killer was trying to send a very bold message.

CHAPTER FIVE

Margaret Hawthorn's house sat on a quiet street in the Ballard neighborhood, its clean lines and understated elegance immediately catching Addison's attention. The single-story home was a study in minimalism, with a flat roof and large windows that spoke to mid-century modern influences. But the subtle details revealed something deeper that Addison thought those who really appreciated architecture would notice. The entry gate was made of dark wood slats arranged in a geometric pattern, and the path to the front door was lined with carefully placed river stones.

"Nice place," Javier said, but Addison was already noticing the Japanese-inspired elements woven throughout the design.

The front garden was immaculate, with precisely pruned shrubs and a small ornamental tree that had been shaped with obvious care. The roof extended past the walls, the clean horizontal lines. It's influenced by Japanese architecture but adapted for Seattle weather. A bamboo water feature trickled quietly near the entrance, its gentle sound creating a sense of tranquility that seemed at odds with the violent death that had occurred inside.

The interior of the house continued the theme. Hardwood floors gleamed under natural light streaming through the large windows, and the open floor plan created a sense of space and flow. The furniture was minimal but carefully chosen—a low-profile sofa in cream linen, a coffee table made from a single piece of live-edge wood, floor cushions arranged around a sunken conversation area. A built-in bookshelf stretched across one wall, the books arranged by height and color, creating a subtle visual rhythm.

In the living room, they found the spot where Hawthorn had been discovered. The crime scene tape had been removed, but Addison could picture her sitting in the sleek armchair that faced the garden just beyond the back door, looking peaceful in death. The chair was positioned to take advantage of the view through sliding glass doors that opened onto a meticulously maintained backyard.

Addison studied the sculptures placed throughout the room. They were abstract pieces, smooth and organic, carved from what looked like various types of stone. Each piece seemed to flow into the next, creating a harmony between the artwork and the space itself.

The kitchen continued the Japanese aesthetic with clean lines, hidden storage, and a large island made from the same live-edge wood as the coffee table. Copper pots hung from a rail system, and a collection of ceramic bowls sat in a glass-fronted cabinet. Everything spoke to someone who appreciated both form and function, who found beauty in simplicity.

But it was the view from the kitchen window that drew Addison's attention. In the backyard, beyond the carefully tended garden, stood a small structure that was one part shed and one-part tiny home. She was quite certain it served as a workshop.

"That must be her studio," she said, pointing through the glass.

“A secondary one, anyway,” Javier said. “The case files say she has a large studio space downtown.”

They made their way through the sliding doors and across the garden, their feet crunching softly on the gravel path. The garden itself was a work of art—moss-covered stones, carefully placed plantings, and a small pond with koi swimming lazily beneath lily pads—more of the Japanese touch. It felt like stepping into a different world, one where every element had been considered and placed with intention.

The shed that served as Hawthorn's at-home sculpting studio was larger than it had appeared from the house, with skylights cut into the roof to provide natural light. The exterior was clad in the same dark wood as the entry gate, weathered to a silvery gray that complemented the garden's palette. It was quite serene and beautiful.

Inside, the studio was both organized and chaotic. Worktables and benches lined the walls, covered with tools of various sizes: chisels, rasps, sanders, and polishing compounds. Blocks of stone in different stages of completion sat on pedestals throughout the space, some barely roughed out, others nearly finished. The air still held the faint scent of stone dust and the oil she used to condition her tools. A small kiln sat in the far corner in a subtle way that allowed the rest of the room to have its own identity without it.

But it was the evidence of struggle that caught their attention immediately. Unlike the peaceful perfection of the house, the studio told a different story.

"Look at this," Addison said, approaching a table near the center of the room. Scattered across its surface were fragments of stone—small pieces that looked like they'd been broken off from larger works. Some were clearly accidental chips, the kind that happened when a tool slipped or when stone had an unexpected weakness. But others looked different, more deliberate, as if they'd been smashed in frustration.

Javier picked up one of the fragments, examining its rough edges. "This doesn't look like normal wear and tear. And certainly nothing like the smooth surfaces from the work we saw inside."

Near the table, they found evidence of multiple failed attempts at the same project. Several blocks of the same type of stone—a pale marble with subtle veining—sat in various stages of completion. The first attempt had been abandoned early, with only the roughest outline of a form visible. The second had progressed further before being set aside, its surface marked with false starts and corrections. The third showed signs of more aggressive work, with deep gouges where tools had been used with too much force. There were similarities in its form…enough to suggest that they’d all been attempts at the same project.

"She was struggling with something," Addison observed, running her finger along one of the unfinished pieces.

In one corner of the studio, they found a trash bin filled with more stone fragments. Some were small enough to be considered dust, while others were substantial chunks that represented hours of lost work. The floor around the bin was littered with debris, as if pieces had been thrown with considerable force.

"This is different from her other work," Javier said, comparing the unfinished pieces to a completed sculpture that sat on a nearby shelf. The finished piece was elegant and smooth, its curves flowing like water frozen in time. The works-in-progress were angular and harsh, marked by uncertainty and repeated corrections.

Addison examined the tools more closely, noting the wear patterns on the handles and the condition of the cutting edges. Some showed normal use, but others appeared to have been used incorrectly, with chips and nicks that spoke to frustration and loss of control.

"She was losing her fine motor skills," Addison said quietly. "Look at the progression from the early attempts to the later ones. The control gets worse each time."

“Could be. But she could have also been working when she was tired. Or maybe she just gave up on it at some point?” Addison knew these were all good reasons, but she also heard the doubt in his voice.

On the main worktable, they found a medical prescription bottle, nearly empty. The label showed it had been filled just two weeks before Hawthorn's death. Javier picked it up, read it, and looked at the label, perplexed.

“Carbidopa-levodopa,” he said. “Any idea what that is?”

“Yeah, actually. It’s a medication used to treat Parkinson's disease.” She frowned and added, "That would explain the loss of motor control."

Addison felt a chill despite the contained, subtle heat in the studio. A sculptor with Parkinson's disease, struggling to continue her art as her hands betrayed her. The evidence was all around them—the failed attempts, the broken pieces, the tools that no longer obeyed her commands.

"We need to check Montgomery's medical records again," she said, pulling out her phone. “And beyond the simple stuff in the case files.”

She stepped outside, back into the garden, and stood among the greenery and tranquility as she made a few calls Javier stayed in the miniature studio, looking around. Addison pulled up the case files and found the number for Hawthorn's primary care physician, listed in the initial information. The receptionist who answered was polite but firm, telling her that patient records couldn't be released without proper authorization. After explaining that she was well aware of this but this was part of a federal murder investigation, Addison was transferred to the office manager, who informed her that they would need a signed release form from next of kin or a court order. In other words, that was strike one.

The second call was to Hawthorn's neurologist, Dr. Victor Nelson at Swedish Medical Center. Dr. Nelson’s office was more cooperative, but they needed verification of Addison's credentials and approval from their legal department before releasing any information. After twenty minutes on hold, during which Javier came out to check on her and then went back into the house, the office manager came back on the line. Dr. Nelson would be willing to discuss the case in general terms if Addison could provide her badge number and the case file reference, which she did. The neurologist's notes painted a clear picture—primary lateral sclerosis, a rare form of ALS that would gradually rob Hawthorn of her motor control. The disease would eventually steal her ability to sculpt, ending a career that had defined most of her life.

Addison went into the house and found Javier looking through the medicine cabinet the master bathroom. She updated him with the information she’d gotten from Dr. Nelson and with that, they both sensed their time at the Hawthorn residence was at an end.

"Two artists, both diagnosed with neurological conditions that would end their careers,” Addison said. “Both killed before the diseases could progress."

"So, the remaining question is whether the killer is doing this as a weird sort of mercy or if he’s just being malicious,” Javier said.

The question hung in the air between them. Someone had identified two artists who were facing the loss of everything that gave their lives meaning, and had killed them before they could experience that loss. But the method—the experimental freezing technique, the careful positioning of the bodies—suggested something more complex than simple murder. There was purpose there… symbolism.

"Look at how they were found," Addison said. "Montgomery at his piano, Hawthorn in her chair facing the garden, with that book in her lap. Not in hospital beds or surrounded by medical equipment. They were positioned in places that represented their lives as artists."

"Like he was preserving them at their peak, before the diseases could diminish them."

Addison nodded, but something about that interpretation didn't feel complete. The experimental nature of the freezing technique, the different sedatives and injection sites, suggested someone who had a very specific goal in mind.

"He's not just killing them," she said slowly, the realization forming as she spoke. "He's perfecting a technique. The question is what he's perfecting it for."

The house felt suddenly oppressive, filled with the weight of dreams interrupted and potential unrealized. Hawthorn had spent her final weeks struggling against a body that no longer obeyed her artistic vision, fighting to create while her hands betrayed her with each attempt. Someone had been watching that struggle, had known about her diagnosis, and had decided to end it.

But who? And how had they known about both artists' conditions? Medical records were protected, and neither Montgomery nor Hawthorn seemed to have been open about their diagnoses. Even Montgomery had done his best to keep the retirement under wraps, much less his illness.

"We need to find the connection," Addison said, taking one last look around the studio. "Someone knew about both of their conditions, someone who had access to information that wasn't public."

As they made their way back out to their car, Addison tried to make a shape out of all the pieces they’d gathered. She even wondered, based on the scant information they had, if this killer wasn't just targeting artists with neurological conditions. Maybe he was targeting them at a specific point in their decline, when they were still functional but facing an inevitable loss of ability.

It suggested a level of planning and observation that went beyond opportunistic killing. It suggested that someone had been watching these people, studying them, waiting for the right moment to act.

The question was whether there were others out there, other artists facing similar diagnoses, who might already be in the killer's sights. And she was starting to think the only way to find out was to start looking into the manner of death. The issue there, of course, was that freezing a body from the inside out was a very strange method.

On the other hand, it made their pool of candidates very small. In fact, she knew of only one single place in the entire city that dealt in such things.

As they got into the car, Javier back behind the wheel, Addison asked: “You’ve heard of Horizon Cryonics, right?”

He nodded as he started the engine, and smiled. “You think they might be able to help us figure out who might have access to some sort of compound that can freeze someone from the inside out?”

“Not sure. But I think it’s definitely wort a shot.”

He shrugged and pulled out of Margaret Hawthorn’s driveway. “So, let’s go knock on the door,” he said, and Addison typed the name into her phone, looking for an address.

CHAPTER SIX

The drive to Horizon Cryonics took them through the industrial district south of downtown Seattle, past warehouses and manufacturing facilities that gradually gave way to sleeker research buildings and tech campuses. Javier navigated the traffic while Addison scrolled around on her smart pad, researching everything she could find about their destination. She felt she had to do her due diligence because everything she knew about the place and the company was based on local rumors. It was the sort of place that got lumped into those old conspiracy theories about Walt Disney’s head being frozen in a lab somewhere.

"It says here they've been operating for twelve years," she said, scanning the company's website. "Founded by Dr. Elena Vasquez, who has a PhD in biochemistry from Stanford and previously worked for some major pharmaceutical companies."

"And it’s all cryo-stuff?"

“Yeah, mostly.” Addison clicked through several pages of carefully worded descriptions. "Environmental and biological advancements, according to their mission statement. They're working on preservation techniques for organ transplants, methods to extend the viability of donated organs, that kind of thing. All very cutting-edge stuff."

The website was professionally designed, filled with stock photos of scientists in clean lab coats and testimonials from medical professionals praising Horizon's contributions to the field. Awards and certifications were prominently displayed, along with mentions of partnerships with major hospitals and research institutions.

"Sounds legitimate enough," Javier said, turning onto a tree-lined boulevard that led toward the waterfront.

"It does. The press coverage is all glowing, too. Breakthrough research, innovative techniques, potentially revolutionary advances in medical preservation." Addison scrolled through a series of news articles, all of which painted Horizon in an extremely positive light. "But there's something interesting here. Multiple articles mention that they're very secretive about their specific methodologies. Lots of media outlets are turned away whenever they want to interview about things that are anywhere beyond simple public relations."

"Protecting trade secrets?"

"Maybe. Or maybe they don't want people looking too closely at what they're actually doing." She found another article from a biotech industry publication. "This piece from last year talks about how difficult it is to get inside information about their research. Even their published papers are vague about specifics."

Finally, Javier pulled into the parking lot of a modern glass building that looked like it belonged in Silicon Valley rather than Seattle's industrial district. The structure was sleek and imposing, with reflective windows that made it impossible to see inside. A discrete sign near the entrance read: HORIZON CRYONICS - Advancing the Future of Biological Preservation.

Addison set the smart pad to the side, eyeing the building skeptically. "Looks like some sort of weird villain’s lair.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Javier said as he parked the car.

They walked across the front half of the parking lot and through the front doors. Right away, the place surprised Addison. The lobby was exactly what she'd expected from the website. It was modern, clean, and designed to impress. Polished concrete floors reflected the light from floor-to-ceiling windows, and the walls were decorated with abstract art that somehow managed to suggest both scientific precision and organic flow. A reception desk made from what looked like a single piece of white stone dominated the center of the space.

The woman behind the desk looked up as they approached, her smile professional but strained. She was young, probably in her twenties, with blonde hair flowing freely over her shoulders. She had the kind of rigid posture that suggested she'd been coached on how to interact with visitors.

"Good afternoon," she said, her voice carefully modulated. "How can I help you?"

Addison and Javier displayed their badges. "FBI Special Agents Shine and Esposito. We'd like to speak with someone on staff about your research into cooling compounds."

The receptionist's smile faltered slightly. The expression on her face made it seem like someone had given her a particularly hard riddle to solve. "I'm sorry, but all of our research is proprietary. We don't discuss our methodologies with outside parties."

"This is in connection with a federal investigation," Javier said, his tone polite but firm. "We're investigating a series of murders that may involve advanced cooling techniques."

"Oh, I see,” she said, still at odds. “Give me a moment, please; I'll need to call a manager." She reached for her phone slowly, as if she really didn’t want to make the call at all. Her hands were shaking slightly, and she kept glancing toward a corridor that led deeper into the building.

While they waited, Addison studied the lobby more carefully. The art on the walls was beautiful but cold, all sharp angles and flowing lines that reminded her of ice crystals. A display case near the windows contained what looked like scientific equipment for the curious, almost like a mockery of a museum. It showed gleaming instruments that she didn't recognize but clearly cost more than her annual salary.

"Someone will be with you shortly," the receptionist finally said after ending her call. "Please have a seat."

They settled onto a minimalist couch that was as uncomfortable as it looked, which was to say, not at all. The lobby's acoustics seemed designed to carry sound, making their conversation feel exposed even when they spoke in low voices.

"This place gives me the creeps," Javier murmured. "Too clean, too perfect."

Addison nodded, watching the receptionist who kept stealing glances at them while pretending to work at her computer. "Makes me think of hyper sleep in those movies where people have to be in outer space for prolonged periods of time.”

“Of course, it does,” he said, reaching over and playfully squeezing at her hand.

“And she's nervous about something," Addison added. “Did you notice that?”

“That, or she’s just not used to having those kinds of conversations.”

They waited in silence for a little less than ten minutes when a man emerged from the corridor to their right. He was walking with the kind of measured stride that suggested he was trying to project authority. And in Addison’s estimation, he was trying a little too hard. He was tall and lean, probably in his forties, with prematurely gray hair and pale blue eyes that seemed to take in everything without revealing anything in return. His suit was expensive but understated, and he moved with the controlled precision of someone used to being in charge.

"Agents," he said as he approached, extending a hand that felt cold and dry. "I'm Simon Yeats, Director of External Relations. I understand you have some questions about our research."

"We're investigating a series of murders involving advanced cooling techniques," Addison said, studying his face for any reaction. "And yes, we’re aware of how odd that sounds. We're hoping someone here might be able to provide insight into the methodology being used. It might go a long way into helping us make some connections and find a killer."

Yeats's expression didn't change, but something flickered behind his eyes. "I'm afraid I don't understand how our legitimate research could be connected to criminal activity."

"The victims were killed using a compound that caused rapid internal freezing," Javier explained. "The technique is sophisticated, suggesting someone with advanced knowledge of cryogenic preservation."

“And you’re sort of the only folks in town who specialize in that sort of thing. And keep in mind…we’re not saying it’s connected to the killer. We just—”

"There are many companies and research institutions working in cryogenic preservation," Yeats interrupted smoothly. "I hardly think that connects us to any criminal activity."

Addison felt her patience beginning to fray. "Again, we're not making accusations. We're asking for help understanding a technique that's being used to kill people."

"And I'm afraid I can't help you." Yeats's smile was as cold as his handshake. "Our research is extremely sensitive in nature. We have contracts with major medical institutions and pharmaceutical companies that require the highest levels of confidentiality."

"This is a federal investigation into multiple homicides," Javier said, his voice hardening slightly.

"And I'm sure it's very important," Yeats replied. "I respect what you’re doing. I really do. But without a warrant, I'm not authorized to discuss our research with anyone outside the company. Our work is too valuable to risk exposure through casual inquiries."

Addison felt heat rise in her cheeks. "Casual inquiries? We're trying to catch a killer who's using advanced cryogenic techniques to murder people. If your company has developed methods that could be weaponized, we need to know about it."

"I think you're overreaching, Agent," Yeats said, his tone becoming more aggressive. And finally, she seemed to have struck a nerve. He was showing an emotion other that professionalism. "Horizon Cryonics is a legitimate research facility with an impeccable reputation. We don't appreciate the implication that our work might somehow be connected to criminal activity."

"We're not implying anything," Javier stepped closer to Yeats. "We're asking direct questions about techniques that match your area of expertise. I don’t know how we can make that any clearer."

"And I'm declining to answer those questions without proper legal authorization." Yeats moved toward the reception desk, his hand hovering near the phone. "I think this conversation is over."

"Like hell it is," Addison said, her voice rising. "Two people are dead, killed with methods that require exactly the kind of knowledge your company claims to possess. If you have nothing to hide, why won't you help us? I have to say, your attitude is looking pretty suspicious."

Yeats ignored her and picked up the phone, having to lean slightly over the desk to get it. He pressed a single button and after a second or two, simply said: “Yes, to the lobby, please.”

“The bastard is calling security on us,” Javier muttered.

It took less than five seconds. They heard a door open and close along the same corridor Yeats had come down, and two men dressed in plain polos and jeans appeared. They both wore belts with small mace canisters. One even had a taser.

“Calling security on FBI agents is one of those things that will come back to bite you in the ass should you ever end up in court,” Addison said, unable to keep the jab to herself.

"These agents were just leaving," Yeats said calmly, ignoring her.

"Actually, we weren't," Javier said, his hand moving instinctively toward his weapon.

"I'm afraid you were," one of the security guards said, stepping between them and Yeats. "This is private property, and you've been asked to leave."

Addison felt the situation escalating beyond her control. The guards looked like they'd be happy to use force, and Yeats was watching the confrontation with the satisfied expression of someone who held all the cards. Security for a private scientific research firm versus two FBI agents… no matter how it all went down, someone was going to get reprimanded by their superiors.

"This isn't over," Addison said, glaring at Yeats. "We'll be back with a warrant."

"I look forward to it," Yeats replied smoothly. "Until then, I trust you can find your way out."

The security guards tailed them to the parking lot, maintaining a professional but unmistakably threatening presence. Addison felt their eyes on her back as she and Javier reached their car.

“Good work, fellas,” she said, again unable to keep her mouth shut. She was just so damn mad. “Really good job you guys are doing here.”

They got into the car and pulled out of the parking lot. Addison looked in the rearview and saw that the security detail didn’t leave until they’d come to the intersection where the parking lot joined the main road.

"Well, that was productive," Javier said sarcastically as he pulled out into traffic.

"They're hiding something," Addison said, pulling out her phone. "Nobody gets that defensive about legitimate research. I mean, he was a little much, right?”

“For sure. And it makes me wonder if someone higher than him always instructs him to be so tight-lipped.” He shrugged and asked: "Do you think they're involved?"

"I think they know more than they're saying. The way Yeats reacted when we mentioned the cooling techniques—he knew exactly what we were talking about. And to call security when we weren’t even being belligerent or pushy… what the hell was that about?"

“No clue. But I think we can find out when we get that warrant,” Javier said. “Do you want to go ahead and call in the request? It’s already four in the afternoon, so we won’t get it today. But there’s no harm in getting the ball rolling.”

“On it,” Addison said, taking out her phone. “And maybe we’ll get it faster than normal when I explain how we had security called on us and were basically escorted off the property."

As they drove away from the sleek building, Addison had no doubt that Horizon Cryonics might be a legitimate research facility, but their extreme reaction to simple questions suggested they had something to hide. The question was whether they were hiding research that could be weaponized, or if they were already aware that someone was using their techniques to kill people. Either way, Simon Yeats's refusal to cooperate had just moved Horizon Cryonics to the top of their suspect list.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Seattle field office felt different in the late afternoon light. The fluorescent overhead lighting mixed with the fading natural light from the windows, creating an uneven glow that made everything look slightly off-kilter and eerie. Addison sat at her desk, staring at the stack of autopsy reports she'd already read through multiple times. The coffee in her mug had gone cold again, but she kept taking absent sips as she forced herself to focus on the pages in front of her.

It was nearly six o’clock, which meant their warrant request for Horizon Cryonics wouldn't be processed until morning at the earliest. The thought of waiting while a killer remained at large made her stomach clench with frustration. Every hour they lost could mean another victim, another artist frozen from the inside out by someone perfecting their technique.

She was pulled out of her negativity when Javier poked his head through the doorway. “Hey…I'm heading down to Records and Research," he said in a hurried tone. "I figured we should see if there’s anything dirty or shady to be dug up on Horizon Cryonics that might give us leverage tomorrow. Financial records, regulatory violations, anything that might explain why they were so defensive."

Addison nodded without looking up from the files. "Good idea. I'm going to keep going through these reports. Maybe there's something we missed, some detail that could point us in a different direction if Horizon turns out to be a dead end. Maybe there’s even something beyond the freezing that… hell, I don’t know."

He winked at her and said, “Good luck” as he turned away to tackle his own tasks.

After Javier left, the office settled into the quiet hum of evening shift activity. Most of the day staff had gone home, leaving behind only the skeleton crew that handled overnight emergencies and the occasional agent like herself who couldn't let go of a case. The building's ventilation system created a constant white noise that usually helped her concentrate, but tonight it felt oppressive. Every little thing seemed to distract or disorient her.

She spread Montgomery's autopsy photos across her desk, studying the ice crystal formations in his organs. Dr. Holden's notes were thorough, documenting every aspect of the unusual freezing pattern. The crystallization was too uniform for natural hypothermia, too precise to be accidental. It was now absolutely clear beyond a shadow of a doubt that someone had developed a compound specifically designed to freeze human tissue rapidly while preserving cellular structure.

The questions that remained, of course were: who, and why?

She was about five minutes into yet another study session when her cellphone rang, startling her out of her concentration. She glanced at the caller ID and felt her pulse quicken when she saw Agent Hannah Grant's name. She almost ignored it. A call from Grant meant news (or lack thereof) on Jane’s case and any new information on the Boyers. But of course, she was unable to resist the lure of it. This was about Jane, after all.

She answered on the third ring, trying to keep the anticipation out of her voice. “Hey, Grant.”

“Hey. Look, that dead end I texted you about yesterday turned out not to be so dead after all.” Grant's voice carried a note of excitement that made Addison sit up straighter. "We've managed to link them to a known religious organization that the Bureau has been monitoring for years."

Addison grabbed a pen, her hand already moving to take notes. "What kind of organization?"

"They call themselves Golden Harvest. It's a fundamentalist group that's been operating since the early 1980s. Started in rural Oregon, but they've spread across the Pacific Northwest over the decades. The FBI first became aware of them in 1984 when a former member came forward with allegations of child abuse and forced marriages."

Addison had heard the name Golden Harvest before, but didn't know a lot about them. "What did the investigation turn up?" she asked.

"That's the frustrating part. Golden Harvest is extremely insular and well-organized. They move frequently, usually operating out of remote compounds that are difficult to monitor. Every time the bureau has thought they might have a solid case against them, key witnesses disappear or recant their statements. They're careful about what they do and how they do it."

Addison scribbled notes as Hannah continued, her mind racing with the implications. A religious cult with a history of targeting children, operating in the same region where Jane had disappeared. It felt like pieces of a puzzle finally starting to fit together… and she did not like the picture that was forming at all.

"The Boyer family's connection is significant," Grant went on. "Our research suggests they weren't just members of Golden Harvest—they were recruiters. The pattern we've identified suggests they would move into middle-class neighborhoods, integrate into the community, and identify potential targets. Of course, there's no hard evidence on this, but the amount of speculation based on what we do know…"

"Targets for what?"

"Young women, usually between twelve and sixteen from the looks of it. Girls from families that were struggling in some way—financial problems, recent divorces, deaths in the family. Situations where a teenager might be vulnerable to offers of help or guidance."

The description hit Addison like a physical blow. Jane had been thirteen when she disappeared, and their family had been struggling with their mother's death just five years earlier. Their father had been drinking more, working longer hours, leaving Addison to watch Jane while he tried to hold everything together.

"Golden Harvest positioned themselves as offering spiritual guidance and support," Grant continued. "But according to former members who've come forward over the years, they were actually grooming these girls for forced marriages to older men within the cult. The girls would be convinced they were joining a loving religious community, but once they were isolated from their families, they became trapped. And of course, whenever federal agencies came knocking, they would always rest on religious rights."

Addison's throat felt tight as she processed the information. The careful way Leslie Boyer had befriended Jane, the family's sudden departure from the neighborhood right after the disappearance—it all made horrifying sense now. It was a case where all of the pieces had been there but nothing had been clear until so many years after.

"The evidence is still largely circumstantial," Grant admitted. "We can prove the Boyer family's connection to Golden Harvest, and we can document their pattern of moving through communities where young girls disappeared. But proving they were directly responsible for specific abductions is more difficult."

"What about Jane's case specifically?"

"I know you may not want to hear it, but it makes me wonder if Leslie Boyer was never actually a friend to your sister… that she may have just been helping to traffic Jane. I have absolutely no evidence of this, though. However, this development has been enough to officially reopen the investigation. The Bureau is putting together a task force to take another look at Golden Harvest and their recruitment methods."

Addison felt a surge of hope mixed with frustration. After thirteen years, Jane's case was finally getting the attention it deserved. She understood that with a juggernaut like Golden Harvest at the center, the issue of Jane—one lone girl trapped within it—would become quite small. But she would take what she could get.

"I know this is difficult," Grant said, her voice gentle. "But this is real progress. More progress than anyone had made in over a decade. And while I don’t think anyone wants to admit it, some supervisors and directors are almost grateful that we found a reason to open up the case concerning Golden Harvest." She chuckled nervously and added, “But you did not hear that from me.”

“Thank you, Hannah. Really. This means everything to me."

“I’ll let you buy me a beer of three one day. Sound good?”

“Absolutely.”

After ending the call, Addison sat in her chair staring at the notes she'd taken. Golden Harvest. A religious cult that had been operating for over forty years, targeting vulnerable young women and destroying families. The fact that they'd managed to evade serious prosecution for so long spoke to their sophistication and organization.

She felt the familiar urge to dive deep into research, to pull up everything the Bureau had on Golden Harvest and lose herself in the details of their operations. She wanted to understand how they worked, how they identified targets, how they convinced teenage girls to abandon their families for a life of abuse and control. She wanted to see if there were any obvious, clear links to Jane’s disappearance.

But she knew if she did that, she’d lose all focus on their current case. The autopsy reports on her desk reminded her that she had a more immediate responsibility. Two people were dead, killed by someone who was likely preparing to kill again. She couldn't let her personal investment in Jane's case distract her from the urgent need to catch an active killer. Especially one who had access to such a deadly compound.

She forced herself to turn away from the notes about Golden Harvest and focus on Montgomery's medical files. The neurological condition that had been ending his career, the experimental freezing technique that had ended his life—these were the clues she needed to follow right now. She jammed the Golden Harvest notes into one of the drawers of her desk; out of sight, out of mind.

The photographs of Montgomery's internal organs showed the devastating effects of rapid crystallization. The ice formations were so extensive that they'd essentially shattered his cellular structure from within. Whatever compound had been used was far more advanced than anything she'd encountered in her medical examiner days.

She pulled out Margaret Hawthorn's autopsy report and compared the tissue damage patterns. Both victims showed identical crystallization, but the injection sites were different. Montgomery had been injected in the neck, while Hawthorn's injection was in her forearm. Different sedatives had been used as well—midazolam for Hawthorn, propofol for Montgomery.

The killer was definitely experimenting, refining their technique with each victim. But why? What was the end goal of this experimentation? What she did know was that if he was experimenting in these ways, he was far from done with whatever dark job he had set himself upon.

Addison studied the crime scene photos again, focusing on the careful positioning of both bodies. Montgomery at his piano, Hawthorn in her chair with the book about sculpture in her lap. Both scenes had been arranged to suggest the victims had died peacefully while engaged with their art. But the preservation aspect kept nagging at her, too. Someone had gone to great lengths to freeze these people in a way that maintained their physical appearance while ending their lives. It wasn't just murder—it was some kind of twisted attempt at immortalization.

She thought about this for a very long time. Sculpture… immortalization. Music… preservation. Was there something obvious she was missing?

She thought about it for a very long time… until her mind eventually turned back to the call from Hannah Grant. She could not keep her thoughts away from this new breakthrough concerning

Golden Harvest. In an attempt to keep her mind on the right track, she then looked back at the autopsy reports. Two separate cases, two different types of killers, but both involving people who preyed on the vulnerable. Golden Harvest targeted teenage girls from struggling families, while their current killer seemed to be targeting artists facing the loss of their abilities.

The parallel made her stomach turn. Predators always seemed to find the most vulnerable victims, the people who were already facing loss or trauma. Jane had been young and naive, too trusting of the world around her. Montgomery and Hawthorn had been facing the end of their artistic careers when someone decided to "preserve" them through murder.

Addison forced herself to focus on the immediate case. She promised herself that once they caught the killer who was freezing artists, she would give Golden Harvest and Jane's case the attention they deserved. But right now, she needed to understand why someone was using experimental cryogenic techniques to murder people, and whether Horizon Cryonics was involved.

She reached for her cold coffee and took another sip, grimacing at the bitter taste. It was going to be a long night.

CHAPTER EIGHT

He watched from across the street as the silver Honda Civic pulled into the designated parking space. The car moved slowly, carefully, the way elderly drivers navigated when every movement required conscious thought. Through the windshield, he could see the shadowed silhouette of Sophia Ruiz as she turned off the engine and sat for a moment, perhaps gathering her strength and attention to simply get out of the car.

The Sunset Gardens retirement community sprawled before him like a miniature suburb. But it was a suburb designed for people who had simplified their lives down to the essentials. The buildings were low and unassuming, painted in muted earth tones that were probably meant to be soothing but struck him as depressing. Each structure housed four to six units, connected by covered walkways and surrounded by meticulously maintained landscaping that looked more like a corporate campus than a place where elderly and infirm people actually lived.

Everything about the community seemed designed to minimize risk and maximize convenience. The parking spaces were wider than normal, the curbs painted bright yellow for visibility, the sidewalks broader and equipped with handrails every few yards. Streetlamps provided pools of light that overlapped to eliminate dark corners where someone might stumble. It was a place built for bodies that could no longer be trusted, for minds that needed constant reminders and safeguards.

He found it profoundly sad.

Sophia finally emerged from her car with the careful movements of someone who no longer fully trusted her own body. She was still beautiful at sixty-seven, her silver hair pulled back in an elegant chignon. Even in casual clothes—dark slacks and a cream-colored cardigan—she carried herself with the unmistakable posture of a trained dancer. Her spine was straight, her shoulders squared, her head held high despite the slight tremor in her hands as she reached for her purse.

The tremors were getting worse, though. He'd been observing her for weeks now, documenting the progression of her condition through careful surveillance. The epilepsy that had ended her dancing career five years ago was advancing, the seizures becoming more frequent and more severe. Her doctors had tried multiple medications, but nothing seemed to provide lasting relief. Soon, very soon, she would be forced to give up even the simple pleasures of independence—driving to the grocery store, attending the occasional theater performance, maintaining the illusion that she was still the vibrant artist she had once been.

He couldn't let that happen.

Sophia locked her car and made her way toward her unit, moving at a measured pace. Her building was one of six identical structures arranged around a central courtyard. Each building contained four bungalow-style apartments, connected by a covered breezeway that provided shelter from Seattle's frequent rain.

Her unit was on the ground floor, corner position, which meant she had windows on two sides and a small private patio. He'd noted these details during his previous observations, mapping out the layout and identifying potential entry points. The sliding glass door that led to her patio would be his best option—elderly residents often forgot to check locks, especially on doors they rarely used.

As Sophia disappeared into her apartment, he settled back in his car to wait. The parking area for visitors was positioned to provide a clear view of her building while maintaining enough distance to avoid suspicion. He'd done this before. He had learned the rhythms of the community, and he knew when security made their rounds and when residents were most likely to be asleep.

The preservation attempts with David Montgomery and Margaret Hawthorn had been learning experiences. Essential steps in perfecting the technique that would save Sophia from the degradation that awaited her. Montgomery's preservation had been more successful than Hawthorn's—the neck injection had proven more effective than the forearm approach, and the propofol had provided better sedation than the midazolam. Each attempt brought him closer to the perfect method, the technique that would preserve these artistic treasures in their prime.

He thought about Montgomery, resting peacefully in his rehearsal studio, his hands positioned over the piano keys as if he were about to begin playing. The preservation process had worked beautifully, stopping the neurological degeneration that would have slowly stolen his ability to create music. Instead of suffering through months or years of declining motor function, Montgomery could remain forever at the peak of his artistic power.

The same was true for Hawthorn. Her battle with Parkinson's disease had been heartbreaking to witness—the frustrated attempts at sculpture, the broken pieces scattered around her workshop, the slow realization that her hands would never again create the flowing forms that had made her famous. But now she was preserved in peaceful contemplation, surrounded by the art that defined her life, free from the tremors and rigidity that had been destroying her ability to work.

He understood that others might not immediately recognize the gift he was providing. The preservation process was still experimental, still being refined with each attempt. But the core principle was sound: these artists deserved better than a slow decline into irrelevance and disability. They deserved to be remembered at their peak, preserved in the moment before disease could diminish their gifts.

Sophia represented his most ambitious preservation yet. Her condition was worsening to the point that she would soon be unable to live independently, unable to maintain even the shadow of her former artistic life. The graceful movements that had made her a prima ballerina were being replaced by the unpredictable spasms of neurological dysfunction.

But he could save her from that fate.

The lights in her apartment came on as evening settled over the retirement community. Through her windows, he could see her moving around the small space, probably preparing dinner or settling in for the evening. She lived alone—the divorce had been finalized three years ago, shortly after her diagnosis became public knowledge, and that was when she’d moved into Sunset Gardens.

The parking lot gradually emptied as visitors left and residents settled in for the night. By nine o'clock, most of the windows in the surrounding buildings had gone dark, leaving only the security lighting to illuminate the walkways and common areas. The community took on an almost institutional quality in the artificial light, all sharp edges and geometric shadows.

Sophia's lights remained on until nearly ten-thirty. He watched her silhouette move past the windows, noting the way she paused occasionally to steady herself against furniture. The epilepsy was affecting her balance as well as causing seizures, making even simple movements potentially dangerous. How long before she fell and injured herself? How long before the seizures became so severe that she required constant medical supervision?

He couldn't let her reach that point. She deserved better than the slow deterioration that awaited her.

When her lights finally went out, he waited another hour to ensure she was deeply asleep. The retirement community was designed for early bedtimes and predictable schedules; most residents were asleep by eleven o'clock, and the security guard made his final rounds at midnight. That gave him a narrow window of opportunity, but it would be enough.

As he prepared to move, he thought about how Sophia would be remembered. Not as a broken woman struggling with epilepsy, dependent on others for her basic needs. Instead, she would be preserved as the artist she had always been: graceful, elegant, forever captured at the moment before disease could claim her.

He checked his watch. The community was quiet now, settled into the deep sleep of people whose days followed predictable patterns.

It was time to begin.

CHAPTER NINE

Addison's phone rang as Javier navigated the morning traffic toward downtown Seattle. She glanced at the screen and saw SAIC Loomis's name, feeling a flutter of anticipation in her chest. She and Javier stayed at the field office until one-thirty in the morning, poring over financial records and regulatory filings that Javier had pulled from Records and Research. They’d found scant evidence of anonymous funding streams to Horizon Cryonics that raised more questions than answers, but nothing concrete enough to build a case on. Just patterns of money flowing through shell companies and offshore accounts, the kind of financial architecture that wealthy people used to hide their investments.

They’d called it a night and crashed at Javier’s house. Now they were head back to the field office, back to the grind and hopefully on the heels of their killer by the end of the day.

Addison placed the call on peak mode as she answered, so Javier could hear. “Good morning, Director Loomis.”

"Good morning, Shine. I have news about your warrant request."

"Please tell me it's good news."

"It is. Judge Morrison signed off on the warrant twenty minutes ago. I'm emailing you the documentation now." Loomis's voice carried a note of satisfaction. "Apparently, the fact that Horizon called security on federal agents didn't sit well with her. She found their refusal to cooperate with a murder investigation to be highly suspicious, so she moved it to the top of her pile."

Addison felt a surge of vindication. "What's our scope?"

"Broad enough to get you what you need. You're authorized to search their research facilities, interview employees, and seize any materials related to cryogenic compounds or cooling agents. I'm also putting three additional agents on standby in case you need backup for a full raid."

"Perfect. We'll head over there now."

"Keep me updated. And Shine? If they give you any more trouble, don't hesitate to escalate. Just text and I’ll send the team over."

After Loomis hung up, Addison checked her email and found the warrant documentation. The legal language was dense but thorough, giving them authority to investigate any connection between Horizon's research and the murders. Judge Morrison had clearly taken their concerns seriously.

"Feels good to have the law on our side for once," Javier said, turning onto the boulevard that led to Horizon's building.

"It does. And I'm curious to see how cooperative they'll be when we're not just asking politely." Addison studied the warrant details on her phone. "Morrison even included authorization for digital forensics if we find evidence of criminal activity. That's much broader than I expected."

They drove on through the morning traffic, Addison sipping on her morning coffee and doing her best to keep her mind centered on the case rather that derailing back to the call from Hannah Grant yesterday—a call she had not yet opened up to Javier about. The Horizon Cryonics building looked the same as it had the day before—sleek glass and steel reflecting the overcast Seattle sky. But this time, Addison felt the confidence that came with proper legal authority as they walked through the lobby doors. The same blonde receptionist sat behind the white stone desk, but her expression shifted from professional courtesy to obvious anxiety when she recognized them.

"Agents," she said, her voice slightly higher than it had been yesterday. "I wasn't expecting to see you again so soon."

Addison already had the warrant pulled up on her smart pad, which she'd brought along inside. She showed it to the receptionist as if she was showing her badge and ID. "We have a federal warrant to search these premises in connection with our murder investigation. We'll need immediate access to your research facilities and staff."

The receptionist's face went pale as she scanned the document. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for her phone. "I'll need to call someone…."

"Actually, you don’t," Addison said. "But we would like to speak with Simon Yeats again."

"I'm sorry, but Mr. Yeats isn't in yet. He usually arrives around ten." The receptionist glanced at the wall clock, which showed eight-forty-five. "But I can call Dr. Harlow. He's our lead researcher and should be able to help you."

Addison felt heat rise in her cheeks. The fact that Yeats wasn't even in the building yet made his aggressive response yesterday seem even more suspicious. What kind of Director of External Relations wasn't available during normal business hours? Was the bastard hiding from them, certain they would come back with a warrant?

"Fine," she said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. "Get Dr. Harlow down here immediately."

While they waited, Javier studied the lobby's scientific equipment display while Addison reviewed the warrant documentation on her phone. The receptionist made several hushed phone calls, her anxiety palpable as she explained the situation to whoever was on the other end. Addison stayed as close to her as possible; she knew it was a bit childish but she wanted the receptionist to really feel pressured.

Dr. Nathan Harlow appeared within three minutes, emerging from the same corridor that Yeats had used the day before. He was younger than Addison had expected, probably in his early forties, with dark hair that was already showing streaks of gray at the temples. His lab coat was pristine white, and he moved with the confident stride of someone comfortable in his environment. Unlike Yeats, his approach seemed genuinely welcoming rather than defensive. Addison’s sci-fi mind linked him to the Fantastic Four comics. He looked very much like Reed Richards.

"Agents," he said, extending his hand. "I'm Dr. Nathan Harlow, Horizon's lead researcher. I understand you have questions about our work."

Addison shook his hand, noting that his grip was firm and his expression open. "We have a federal warrant to investigate potential connections between your research and a series of murders in the city."

"I see." Harlow's expression grew serious as he glanced at the warrant. "I want to apologize for yesterday's interaction with Mr. Yeats. He was only doing his job—we have very strict protocols about protecting our proprietary research. I would have handled things the same way, just not quite as aggressively, if I’m being honest. Now… if you have legal authorization, then of course we'll cooperate fully."

Addison studied his face, looking for signs of deception. Harlow seemed genuinely concerned rather than defensive, but she'd learned not to trust first impressions. "We appreciate your cooperation, Dr. Harlow. We'd like to start by discussing your research into cooling compounds."

"Of course. Why don't we go to my office where we can speak privately?" Harlow gestured toward the corridor. "I can explain our work in more detail there."

They followed him down a hallway lined with frosted glass doors and modern artwork. The hallways were all clean lines and neutral colors designed to project scientific sophistication. Harlow's office was spacious and well-lit, with floor-to-ceiling windows that provided a view of the waterfront. His desk was organized but not obsessively so, covered with research papers and what looked like grant applications.

"Please, have a seat," Harlow said, settling behind his desk. Addison and Javier did as they were asked, but Addison remained on her guard. She couldn’t help but feel that they were being lulled into a false sense of security. "Now, what specifically can I help you understand about our research?"

Addison pulled out her smart pad and opened the autopsy photos from Montgomery and Hawthorn. "We're investigating murders involving a sophisticated cooling technique that causes rapid internal hypothermia. The method is unlike anything we've seen before."

She turned the tablet toward Harlow, showing him selected portions of the autopsy reports. She usually wouldn't show such grisly material, but so far, everything about Horizon had pissed her off, and she was fine putting a bit of shock into them, letting them know just how serious this case was.

Harlow’s reaction was immediate and unmistakable—his face went pale and his hands gripped the edge of his desk. "Jesus Christ," he breathed, leaning forward to study the images. "Where did you say these victims were found?"

"In normal temperature environments. No external cooling sources, no equipment that could explain the internal ice crystal formation." Addison watched his reaction carefully. "The technique appears to involve some kind of injectable compound that freezes tissue from the inside out."

Harlow was quiet for a long moment, his eyes moving between the autopsy photos and the detailed tissue analysis reports. When he looked up, his expression was troubled in a way that seemed genuinely authentic. He looked ashen and slightly pale.

"This is extremely concerning," he said slowly. He then looked up and eyed them both with great concern. "These crystallization patterns are consistent with a very specific type of cryogenic compound."

"What kind of compound?"

Harlow hesitated, and Addison could see him weighing his words carefully. "We've been developing an experimental cooling agent for potential medical applications. It was designed for use as a localized anesthetic, or possibly for cryoneurolysis treatments… that is, using controlled cooling to block nerve function temporarily."

"And this compound could cause the kind of internal freezing we're seeing?"

"If it were used incorrectly, yes. The compound was designed to provide precise, localized cooling for medical procedures. But if someone administered it systemically, or in large doses... " He gestured toward the autopsy photos. "The results would be exactly what you're showing me."

Javier leaned forward. "How restricted is access to this compound?"

"Extremely restricted. We've only produced small quantities for initial testing, and it's stored in our highest-security laboratory." Harlow paused, then continued reluctantly. His face sagged, and Addison knew that whatever was coming next was going to hurt him to admit. "However, I need to tell you something that Mr. Yeats should have mentioned yesterday."

Addison felt her temper flare. "What should he have mentioned?"

"We had a break-in two weeks ago. Several vials of the experimental compound were stolen from our secure storage."

The room fell silent as the implications sank in. Addison could feel her anger building, both at Yeats for withholding crucial information and at the situation itself. A break-in at a facility developing advanced cooling compounds, just weeks before their murder victims started turning up frozen from the inside out.

"Are you telling me," she said, her voice dangerously calm, "that someone stole experimental compounds from your facility, and when federal agents came asking about murders involving cooling techniques, your Director of External Relations didn't think that was relevant information?"

"I can only assume Mr. Yeats was following protocol regarding proprietary information," Harlow said carefully. And she thought she could hear a bit of anger towards Yeats in his own voice. "He may not have been authorized to discuss the break-in without legal compulsion."

"Well, he's got legal compulsion now," Javier said grimly. "Jesus! What exactly was stolen?"

"Six vials of the compound, each containing enough for multiple applications. We reported the theft to local police, but they classified it as a simple burglary. Without knowing the specific nature of what was stolen, they didn't treat it as a high-priority case and no one here was ready to admit just what it was."

Addison stood up, pacing to the window as she tried to process the information. Someone had stolen experimental cooling compounds from Horizon, and now those compounds were being used to kill people. The connection was too obvious to ignore, but it also raised new questions about how the killer had known what to steal and how to use it. And why the hell was Horizon being so secretive about it?

"Dr. Harlow," she said, turning back to face him, "I need to see the security footage from the day of the break-in. Immediately."

"Of course. I'll call our IT and security departments right now." Harlow reached for his phone. "They can pull up the relevant footage and provide you with copies."

As Harlow dialed, Addison felt the familiar excitement of a case breaking open. They finally had a concrete connection between their victims and a potential source for the murder weapon. The experimental cooling compound explained the sophisticated nature of the technique and the killer's apparent knowledge of cryogenic preservation. It was almost enough to help her get over the level of incompetence exhibited by Horizon’s staff.

But it also meant they were dealing with someone who had specifically targeted Horizon for the theft, someone who knew exactly what they were looking for and how to use it. This wasn't a random burglary—it was a carefully planned acquisition of murder weapons.

And if things played out the way she hoped, they were about to get a glimpse of the person behind it all.

CHAPTER TEN

The security office at Horizon Cryonics was cramped and utilitarian, completely different from the sleek design of the rest of the building. Banks of monitors lined one wall, displaying feeds from cameras positioned throughout the facility. The room smelled of stale coffee and electronics, and the constant hum of cooling fans made it feel like they were standing on top of a large hornet’s nest.

Dr. Harlow led them into the room where they were met by Marcus Webb, the head of security. Webb was a compact man in his fifties with almost no hair remaining and the alert posture of someone who'd spent years in law enforcement. His handshake was firm, and his eyes held a bit of wariness. Addison assumed the break-in had been stressful as hell for the poor guy.

“Marcus, they need to see the clips of the intruder from the break in,” Harlow said.

“Yeah, I figured as much.” He gestured toward a large monitor at the center of the console. "I've already pulled up the footage from the night of the break-in. We have it saved and highlighted, ready to go."

Addison settled into a chair next to the monitor, her notepad ready. Javier positioned himself where he could see both the screen and watch the reactions of Harlow and Webb. The timestamp on the footage showed 1:15 AM, and the camera angle captured the back of the building near what appeared to be a loading entrance.

"This is where it starts," Webb said, pressing play.

The footage was surprisingly clear despite the nighttime setting. Security lighting illuminated the area well enough to show a figure approaching the building from the parking lot. The person was dressed in dark clothing and wore a ski mask that completely obscured their face, but their movements were confident and purposeful.

"Look at the way they're walking," Addison observed. "No hesitation, no looking around to check for cameras. They know exactly where they're going."

The masked figure approached the loading dock entrance and knelt beside the door. From this angle, it was impossible to see exactly what they were doing, but their hands worked quickly and efficiently at something near the lock mechanism.

"What kind of security do you have on that entrance?" Javier asked.

"Electronic deadbolt with a mechanical backup," Webb replied. "It's connected to our main security system, so any unauthorized entry should trigger an alarm."

On screen, the figure stood up and tried the door handle. It opened smoothly, and they disappeared inside the building.

"No alarms?" Addison asked.

Webb shook his head grimly. "Nothing. Whatever they used, the system read it as a legitimate entry. We didn't even know there had been a break-in until the morning shift discovered the missing compounds."

"Can you show us the interior footage?"

Webb switched to a different camera feed, this one showing a long corridor inside the building. The timestamp jumped ahead by about thirty seconds, and then the masked figure appeared, moving down the hallway with the same confident stride they'd displayed outside.

"No hesitation at all," Javier said. "No wrong turns, no checking room numbers. This person has been in this building before."

“That’s what I was fearing myself,” Harlow said.

The figure moved through several more camera angles, each one showing the same purposeful navigation through the building's interior. They passed multiple laboratories and office doors without stopping, heading directly toward their target.

"What device could override your electronic locks without triggering alarms?" Addison asked.

Javier leaned forward, studying the footage more carefully. "There are a few possibilities, but none of them are easy to come by. Could be a RFID cloner if your locks use proximity cards. Those can copy authorized credentials and replay them."

"Our system does use RFID cards," Webb confirmed.

"Could also be a lock bump key designed specifically for your lock model," Javier continued. "Or maybe an electronic lock pick—some of the newer ones can interface directly with digital locking mechanisms. There's also the possibility of a master override device, but those are usually restricted to law enforcement or security companies."

Harlow frowned. "They all sound like specialized equipment. Not something a random burglar would have access to."

"Exactly," Addison said. "This was planned. Professional. Someone who knew your security systems and came prepared to defeat them. And knew their way around the facility."

The footage continued to show the intruder moving through the building. They reached what appeared to be a laboratory area and used the same technique to open another secured door. Inside, they moved directly to a specific storage unit and began removing small vials from a refrigerated container. The angle of the camera made it impossible to see all that the intruder could, but they saw enough.

"That's our high-security lab where we store experimental compounds," Harlow said quietly. "Access is supposed to be restricted to senior researchers only."

"How many people have legitimate access to that lab?" Addison asked.

"Currently? Maybe eight people. All senior staff with the highest security clearances."

On screen, the figure pocketed several vials and headed back toward the exit. The entire operation took less than ten minutes from entry to departure, and throughout the footage, their movements remained calm and methodical.

"They knew exactly what they were looking for," Javier observed. "No searching through different storage units, no hesitation about which vials to take. They went straight to the right container. And they knew they’d be seen… and just didn’t seem to care."

"Which means they had specific knowledge of what was stored where," Addison added.

Webb fast-forwarded through the exit footage, showing the masked figure leaving the building and disappearing into the parking lot. The timestamp showed 1:24 AM—a total of nine minutes inside the facility.

"Any footage from the parking lot?" Addison asked.

"Limited. Our cameras focus on the building perimeter, not the parking areas. We caught a glimpse of what might have been a dark sedan, but the angle and lighting make it impossible to identify the make or model. And no glimpse of the license plate, either."

Addison studied the final frames of footage, noting how the intruder's posture remained confident even during their exit. No signs of panic or haste, just the same professional efficiency they'd displayed throughout the break-in.

"Dr. Harlow," she said, turning away from the monitor, "I need you to explain exactly what was stolen and how it could be used."

Harlow shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "The compound is designated HC-47. It's a specialized cryogenic agent we've been developing for potential medical applications. The primary intended use would be as a localized anesthetic for certain surgical procedures, or possibly for cryoneurolysis treatments, as I already said."

"Explain cryoneurolysis treatments to us," Javier said.

"It's a technique that uses controlled cooling to temporarily block nerve function. The idea is to provide pain relief or treat certain neurological conditions by essentially freezing specific nerve pathways. The cooling effect is temporary and localized, designed to avoid permanent damage."

"But if someone used it incorrectly?" Addison pressed.

Harlow's expression grew more troubled. "If HC-47 were administered systemically rather than locally, or in doses larger than intended, it could cause rapid hypothermia throughout the body. The compound is designed to penetrate tissue quickly and efficiently, which makes it effective for medical applications, but potentially dangerous if misused."

"And the crystallization patterns we showed you in the autopsy reports?"

"Those would be consistent with systemic administration of HC-47. The compound causes rapid ice crystal formation in tissue, which is normally beneficial for blocking nerve function. But when applied to the entire circulatory system..." He gestured helplessly. "The results would be catastrophic."

Addison felt a chill pass through her and did her best not to overthink the irony of it. Someone had stolen a compound designed to freeze nerve tissue and was using it to kill people from the inside out. The clinical precision of the murders suddenly made perfect sense.

"How much was stolen?" she asked, her voice soft.

"Six vials, each containing approximately twenty milliliters of the compound."

"And how much would be needed to kill someone?" Javier asked.

Harlow hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "I can't say with certainty, since that was never the intended application. But based on the compound's concentration and the tissue damage patterns you've shown me, probably five to ten milliliters per victim."

Addison did the quick math. Six vials containing twenty milliliters each meant the thief had stolen enough compound to kill between twelve and twenty-four people. So far, they only knew of two victims. That left sufficient stolen material for many more murders.

"Dr. Harlow," she said trying not to be bogged down by the horror of it all. "I appreciate your cooperation in explaining the compound's properties. But I don't think you understand how serious this situation is. Someone is using your research to commit murder, and they have enough stolen material to kill potentially dozens more people."

"I do understand the gravity of the situation," Harlow replied. "And I want to help in any way I can. But I've told you everything I know about the break-in and the stolen compounds."

"No, you haven't," Addison said firmly. "You can give us a complete list of all past and present employees who might hold a grudge against Horizon. Someone who might want to steal your research and use it for their own purposes."

Harlow looked surprised by the request. "You think this was done by a former employee?"

"It’s clear from the footage that whoever did this knew your facility's layout intimately. They didn't waste any time looking for the right lab or the right storage unit. They went straight to their target with the confidence of someone who'd been there before. It’s a possibility we have to consider.”

Javier nodded in agreement. "The way they moved through the building, the knowledge of your security systems, the specific targeting of HC-47—this was an inside job, or at least someone with inside knowledge."

"And the timing," Addison added. "Six vials stolen two weeks ago, and our first victim was found five days ago. That suggests the thief needed time to plan and prepare before beginning their killing spree."

Harlow was quiet for a moment, processing the implications. Addison noticed the expression on his face changing from sadness to concern, then to something that looked like anger. When he spoke, his voice carried a note of reluctant acceptance. "You're right. The level of knowledge required to pull off this theft does suggest someone intimately familiar with our operations."

"So, you'll provide the employee list?"

"Yes, of course. I'll need to compile records from both current staff and anyone who's left the company in the past few years. That includes researchers, technicians, security personnel, even administrative staff who might have had access to sensitive information."

"How long will that take?"

"Give me thirty minutes. I'll pull personnel files and cross-reference them with security access logs to identify anyone with legitimate access to the HC-47 storage area."

"I also want disciplinary records," Addison said. "Anyone who was fired, demoted, or had conflicts with management. People who might have felt wronged by the company."

"That might take a bit longer to compile, but I can have it ready within the hour." Harlow stood up, now clearly distressed. The realization that someone was using his work to commit murder clearly weighed on him.

"Agents," he said as he reached the door, "I want you to know that HC-47 was developed with the best intentions. The goal was to advance medical treatment and help patients, though I’m sure you can see why some might find it… controversial. The idea that it's being perverted into a weapon for murder is deeply disturbing to everyone here."

"We understand that," Addison said. "But right now, our priority is stopping whoever stole your compound before they kill again."

Harlow nodded grimly and left the room, leaving Addison and Javier alone with Webb and the frozen security footage.

The image on the monitor showed the masked figure in mid-stride, their identity hidden but their purpose clear. Somewhere in Horizon's employee records was the key to identifying this person, and Addison could feel the answers dangling somewhere just ahead of them. But she also knew that every hour they spent investigating was another hour their killer had to plan their next attack.

And they were already very far behind.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Dr. Harlow returned forty-five minutes later with a thick folder and an apologetic expression. He knocked on the door frame of the security office where Addison and Javier were still reviewing the break-in footage for the third time, looking for details they might have missed. But as hard as they looked, there seemed to be nothing substantial.

"I have the employee records you requested," Harlow said, holding up the folder. "Current staff, former employees going back five years, and disciplinary records. I also took the liberty of cross-referencing everyone against our security access logs to identify who had legitimate after-hours access to the HC-47 storage area. That classification alone shortened the list a bit."

Addison accepted the folder, noting its substantial weight. "Thanks.”

“Of course. And I know it’s going to take some time to dig through… so I can offer you a temporary office space here on the premises. We have a vacant office on the third floor with a conference table that might work better than trying to spread out in the security room. That way, I figure if you need information on anyone on the list, you’re already here."

The offer was clearly an attempt to make up for yesterday's hostile reception, but Addison found herself appreciating the gesture. Having a proper workspace would make the investigation much more efficient than trying to work from their car or heading back to the field office once again.

"That would be helpful,” she said. “Thank you."

Harlow led them up two flights of stairs to the third floor, which housed additional laboratory spaces and administrative offices. The look and feel was the same as the rest of the building—almost futuristic with a sleek, minimalist touch. The vacant office he showed them was spacious and well-lit, with a large conference table surrounded by comfortable chairs and a wall-mounted monitor.

"Will this work?" Harlow asked.

"Perfect," Javier said. “Thanks again.”

"I'll have my assistant bring up some coffee and water. Perhaps some snacks as well, since you'll likely be here for a while." Harlow paused at the doorway, pondering something for a moment. He looked to them again and said, "Agents, I want you to know that everyone at Horizon is committed to helping you solve this case. Yesterday's interaction with Mr. Yeats was unfortunate, but it doesn't represent how we actually feel about cooperating with your investigation."

“We appreciate that,” Javier said, but there was something in his tone that indicated he was still somewhat put out by how things had gone yesterday.

After Harlow left, Addison spread the contents of the folder across the conference table. The employee records were meticulously organized, with current staff in one section, former employees in another, and disciplinary records flagged with colored tabs. Each file contained basic employment information, security clearance levels, and access logs showing when employees had entered restricted areas. Some employees only took up a page while there were five pages for others.

"Looks like Harlow wasn't kidding about being thorough," Javier said, scanning the organized documents.

“I think he’s trying to earn some brownie points after Yeats’s little outburst yesterday.”

A soft knock at the door announced the arrival of Harlow's assistant. She was a young woman, likely an intern from Addison’s guess. She brought in a tray with coffee, bottled water, and an assortment of pastries and fruit. She set everything up on a side table and left without saying a word, though her curious glances at the spread of documents suggested she understood the seriousness of the situation.

Addison poured herself a cup of coffee and settled in to review the records systematically. After some thought, she also grabbed a blueberry Danish. She had never been one to turn down free food. "Let's start with former employees who had after-hours access to the lab areas," she said after biting into the Danish. "Anyone who left under suspicious circumstances or had disciplinary issues."

They worked in companionable silence for nearly an hour, each taking a section of the files and making notes about potentially suspicious patterns. On occasion, one of them would look a name up in the bureau database, using Addison’s smart pad. Once they got into something of a groove, the work wasn’t quite as tedious as Addison had feared.

"Here's something interesting," Javier said about an hour into their session. He held up a personnel file, waving it in a celebratory fashion. "Oliver Reese, a lab technician. He was employed here for eighteen months until he was terminated six weeks ago."

Addison looked up from her own stack of files. "What was he terminated for?"

"Multiple infractions, it seems. Unauthorized access to restricted areas, failure to follow safety protocols, and..." Javier flipped through the pages. "Suspected theft of laboratory equipment. Nothing was ever proven, but there were enough incidents to justify termination."

"What kind of access did he have? Does it say?"

"Level three security clearance, which included after-hours access to most laboratory areas. According to these logs, he frequently worked late shifts and had legitimate reasons to be in the building during off-hours."

"Any chance it has the list of his access logs for the weeks before his termination?"

“A few, yeah. Seems like it’s just access dates and times that Horizon thought were worth looking into for proof of his alleged crimes.”

He spread out the security access records, which showed Reese's card being used to enter various restricted areas throughout his employment. The pattern was initially normal, regular entries during scheduled shifts and occasional after-hours access for legitimate projects. But in the final weeks of his employment, the pattern changed significantly.

"Here we go," Addison said, pointing to entries from five weeks before Reese's termination. She studied them closely for a moment and said, "He's accessing the high-security lab areas multiple times per night, often staying for hours after his scheduled shift ended."

"And here," Javier added, indicating another set of entries. "Three separate instances of accessing areas he had no legitimate reason to be in. Storage rooms, administrative offices, even Dr. Harlow's personal laboratory."

The picture that emerged was of an employee who had become increasingly erratic in his final weeks, using his security access to explore areas of the facility that were outside his normal responsibilities. The pattern suggested someone who was either planning something or looking for specific information.

"What does his disciplinary record say about the suspected theft?" Addison asked.

Javier had to hunt for a bit but was able to find the relevant section. "Laboratory equipment worth approximately three thousand dollars went missing during Reese's final month of employment. Small items—pipettes, measuring devices, storage containers. Nothing that would be immediately missed, but valuable enough to be worth stealing."

"Perfect for someone planning to work with stolen chemical compounds," Addison observed.

She once again turned to her smart pad and accessed the FBI's mobile database. Oliver Reese's name brought up a criminal background check that painted an increasingly troubling picture. It was the first bit of cross-referencing that was actually yielding any solid results.

"Javi, look at this," she said, turning the tablet so he could see the screen. "Reese was arrested three weeks after his termination from Horizon. He got caught during an attempted mugging outside a casino in Tacoma."

"Gambling problems, maybe?" Javier theorized.

"According to the police report, he admitted to owing money to bookmakers and said he was desperate for cash to pay off his debts,” Addison recited as she read from the database. “The victim was a businessman leaving the casino with a substantial amount of winnings, and Reese tried to rob him in the parking lot."

Javier whistled low. "So, we have a former employee with gambling debts, suspected of stealing laboratory equipment, terminated for unauthorized access to restricted areas, and arrested for attempted robbery shortly after losing his job. I mean… can we paint a better picture than that?”

"It gets better," Addison said, scrolling through more information. "Or worse, depending on how you look at it, I suppose. Reese was evicted from his apartment two weeks ago for non-payment of rent. Current whereabouts unknown."

The timeline was becoming clearer. Reese had been terminated from Horizon six weeks ago, arrested for attempted mugging three weeks later, and evicted from his apartment two weeks ago. The break-in at Horizon had occurred exactly two weeks ago, right around the time Reese would have been looking for a new place to live and desperately needing money. Maybe Javier was right; maybe they did indeed have the perfectly painted picture right in front of them.

"He knows the facility layout," Javier said, reviewing Reese's access logs again. "He had legitimate reasons to work late shifts, so security wouldn't have been suspicious of his presence during off-hours. And he clearly had financial motivations for stealing valuable compounds."

"Plus, the timing works perfectly," Addison added. "Evicted two weeks ago, break-in two weeks ago, first murder five days ago. That gives him time to plan the theft, execute it, and then prepare for his first killing."

She pulled up additional information about Reese's background, looking for anything that might explain his transition from laboratory theft to murder. His employment history showed a pattern of technical jobs in scientific settings, mostly short-term positions that had ended due to performance or behavioral issues.

"Look at this," she said, pointing back to the file Harlow had brought, singling out Reese’s once again. "He has a degree in biochemistry from the University of Washington. He would understand exactly what HC-47 does and how to use it effectively."

"And his work history shows he's been around laboratories and scientific equipment his entire career," Javier observed. "He'd know how to handle dangerous compounds safely."

The picture of Oliver Reese that emerged from the files was of someone with the technical knowledge to weaponize stolen cryogenic compounds, the access and opportunity to steal them, and the financial desperation to motivate criminal activity. He was highly intelligent but with a tendency towards criminal activities. More than that, his recent eviction meant he was currently homeless and potentially unstable, making him even more dangerous.

"We need to find him," Addison said, closing the file. "But if he's been evicted and has no known address, that's going to be challenging."

"Maybe not as challenging as we think," Javier replied. "Someone with his background and current situation has limited options. He's probably staying in cheap motels, shelters, or maybe sleeping in his car. Maybe a sympathetic family member in the area. And if he's still gambling, he might be hanging around casinos or other gambling establishments."

Addison stood up and started pacing. She knew it was just superstition, but she felt like she could think better, connecting ideas and theories, when she was up and moving around. Oliver Reese fit the profile perfectly—someone with inside knowledge of Horizon's security systems, technical expertise to use the stolen compounds, and personal circumstances that might drive him to desperate acts.

"The question is whether he's working alone or if someone hired him to steal the compounds," she said.

"Given his gambling debts and eviction, I'd say he's probably working alone. Desperate people make desperate choices, and killing people with stolen laboratory compounds is about as desperate as it gets."

Addison turned back to the conference table, where the files lay spread out like pieces of a puzzle. They had a solid lead now, but finding Reese would require coordinating with local law enforcement and checking every possible location where a homeless former lab technician might be hiding.

"Oliver Reese is definitely worth looking into," she said, gathering up the files. "In fact, I'd say he's moved to the top of our suspect list."

Javier nodded, getting to his feet and gathering up the stack of files. With excitement in his voice, he said: “Then let’s take all of this back to the field office and see if we can find him.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Back at the field office, Addison wasted no time. She went directly to her office and started hunting for Oliver Reese’s social media profiles on her laptop. While she did that, Javier coordinated with local law enforcement from Loomis’s office, working to put out a BOLO alert. It sounded like a very specific search, the sort of man who should be easy to find: a homeless former lab technician with gambling debts could take days without a solid lead on his current location. But Addison knew all too well that sometimes, those were the exact sort of people who turned out nearly impossible to locate.

She found his Facebook profile easily enough, but it was essentially non-active. He hadn’t posted anything in over two years, and that had been just to change his profile picture. Still, she was able to click around through his friends and interests. As she clicked through to his friends list, she specifically looked for people who might have stayed in contact with Reese after his termination from Horizon. Most of the profiles belonged to people who appeared to be former coworkers or acquaintances from the scientific community, but a few stood out as more personal connections.

After a bit of digging through these types of connections, she came to a man who looked rather promising. His name was Gary Barker, Reese’s college roommate. While Reese himself had not posted to his Facebook profile in a while, Barker had always sent Happy Birthday wishes and would occasionally tag him in posts concerning sports or the local music scene.

Gary Barker’s Facebook profile was more open, showing posts about his work as a software developer and frequent check-ins at various restaurants and bars around Seattle. She was curious enough about him to see if he was also active on Instagram. She found Barker’s Instagram page and it was clear right away that he used this more often. His Instagram stories from the past week included several photos from different bars and restaurants, but one from two nights ago caught her attention.

The image showed Barker and another man sitting at a bar. The second man's face was partially obscured by shadows, but his build and profile matched Reese's general appearance. She also noted that the tags near the comment stated that the picture had been taken at Murphy's Pub on Pine Street… roughly seven blocks from the field office.

But it was the next picture that did it. It had been taken that same night, a close-up done in selfie style. It was a picture of Barker and a man who was clearly Oliver Reese. They both looked slightly drunk and happy. The scene behind them had changed, though. They were no longer in the pub. They were standing in a darkened parking lot with slight neon lights behind them. And there, just barely within the picture, was most of a sign for a motel.

Some of the letters were cut off, but what she read was: ADE MOTOR INN.

Curious, she typed it into a search bar: Ade Motor Inn, Seattle. And just as she did, Javier appeared at her door. “Any luck?” he asked.

“I think so… and you’re just in time.” She waved him behind the desk to have a look at the picture. “You know this place?”

“I don’t think so. Ade Motor Inn. Surely the picture is cutting off some letters, right?”

"Yeah." She looked at her search terms, and because of the strange entry she'd provided, there were many hits. But the fifth entry on the list seemed promising: The Cascade Motor Inn. She clicked the result and was taken to a few images… one of which showed the sad-looking motel from the parking lot. And it did indeed appear to be the same parking lot where the photo was taken.

"This is it," she said, enlarging the image. "The other gentleman in this picture is Gary Barker, friend and old college roommate of Olive Reese. This photo was taken three nights ago. If he isn’t there right now, we can check with Barker to see if he knows anything.”

“Well then, let’s hit the road. Though, honestly, if you and I ever hit up a motel, it will be much better than this one.”

“I’d certainly hope so,” she said as she poured herself a coffee from her pot. She slammed a lid down on it and together, they headed out of her office to chase down what seemed to be a promising lead.

***

They drove south through Seattle's industrial corridor, past warehouses and manufacturing facilities that gradually gave way to a neighborhood that had seen better decades. The Cascade Motor Inn sat on a busy street corner, its faded sign promising weekly rates and cable TV. The building was a relic from the 1970s, a two-story structure built around a central courtyard with an empty swimming pool filled with debris and weeds. It was the sort of place most people would either ignore or cringe at in passing.

The motel's exterior was a study in urban decay. The stucco walls were stained with decades of rain and graffiti. The parking lot was cracked and potholed, hosting a collection of older cars in various states of disrepair. A few empty beer cans and bottles were scattered around the sides. It was the kind of hotel where people paid cash and didn't ask questions about each other's business.

"You sure you don’t want to rent a room for about an hour?" Addison asked, nudging Javier as he pulled into an empty spot.

“Would you be willing to fumigate and scrub the hell out of it first?”

They stepped out of the car and into the main office. It smelled like window cleaner, Thai food, and mold. It was a cramped space behind bulletproof glass, staffed by a heavyset man who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.

“Can I help you folks?” he asked.

They showed their badges and IDs at the same time. “Agents Shine and Esposito,” Addison said. “We’re hoping a suspect of ours might currently be staying here.”

“Name?” the man asked, barely even looking up at them as he readied his fingers over a clunky laptop.

“Oliver Reese.”

The clerk typed the name in and nodded almost right away. “Yeah. He’s staying here. Been here for almost a week. Room 237.”

“Has he caused any trouble since he’s been here?” Addison asked.

“None. He paid in advance. All paid up until Sunday.”

"Thanks," Javier said as they turned to exit the office and quickly, as possible, to find Reese, yes, but to also get away from the smell.

Room 237 was on the second floor, accessed by an external staircase and a breezeway that ran along the front of the building. The stairway was littered with trash including, wouldn’t you know it, more beer cans and bottles. There was also a lingering smell of marijuana trapped in the space. The concrete walkway was stained and cracked, with rusted metal railings that looked like they might not support much weight. Each room had a single window and a door painted in peeling brown paint that had probably been applied sometime in the previous decade.

Addison and Javier climbed the stairs, their footsteps echoing off the concrete. Room 237 was at the far end of the walkway, positioned so that its window overlooked the parking lot and street below.

They approached the door carefully, positioning themselves on either side before Addison knocked. "Oliver Reese? This is the FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

There was a long pause before they heard movement inside the room. Footsteps approached the door, stopped, then retreated. After another handful of seconds, the door opened just wide enough for a man's face to appear in the gap. An old silver chain kept the door from opening any further.

Oliver Reese looked exactly like his employee photo, but older and more haggard. He also looked much worse than the photos Addison had seen of him on Instagram just forty minutes ago. His brown hair was unwashed and hung in greasy strands around a face that showed the strain of recent weeks. Dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn't been sleeping well, and his clothes looked like they'd been slept in multiple times.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"We're investigating some incidents at Horizon Cryonics," Addison said calmly, telling the lie so as to not only keep him from growing instantly scared, but to also lure him in to perhaps speak openly about the employer who let him go. "We'd like to ask you about your time there."

"I don't work there anymore."

"We know. That's actually what we wanted to discuss. Can we come in?"

Reese's eyes darted nervously between them, and Addison could see him calculating his options. Instead of inviting them in, he quickly opened the door and stepped outside onto the breezeway. He pulled the door closed behind him, keeping his back against it as if protecting whatever was inside. Addison found this immediately suspicious.

"I can talk out here," he said. "But I don't have much time."

The breezeway was exposed to the street below, with the afternoon traffic providing a constant background of noise. Reese kept glancing toward the stairs, and Addison noticed his hands shaking slightly as he spoke.

"How long did you work at Horizon?" Javier asked.

"Eighteen months. Look, if this is about my termination, I already talked to lawyers about wrongful dismissal. They said I didn't have a case."

"It's not about your termination specifically," Addison said. "We're investigating some missing laboratory equipment and compounds. We were wanting to speak with you to see if you had noticed anything unusual during your final weeks there."

Reese's expression shifted, and Addison saw a flash of panic cross his face. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"We have security footage of someone breaking into the facility and stealing experimental compounds," Javier said. "Someone who knew the layout very well. Someone who also would have bene accustomed to moving through the building after hours.”

That was apparently all Reese needed to hear. Without warning, he spun away from the door and sprinted toward the far end of the breezeway. In doing so he threw a hard shoulder into Javier, causing him to stumble directly back into Addison. The entire ordeal lasted only two seconds but it was more than enough time for Rees to get a crucial head start.

"Stop! FBI!" Addison shouted, but Reese was already at the railing.

Without hesitation, he swung his leg over the metal barrier and jumped. The drop to the parking lot below was approximately twelve feet, and Reese hit the pavement hard, rolling to absorb the impact before scrambling to his feet. Despite what must have been significant pain from the fall, he was up with a single groan and running toward a beat-up Honda Civic parked near the motel office.

“Shit,” Javier hissed and he and Addison raced down the stairs. For only a single second, Addison toyed with making that same jump; if a clearly out of shape Oliver Reese had survived it, surely she could, too. But she also knew it wasn’t worth the chance. So instead, she followed behind Javier, taking the stairs three at a time. By the time they came out onto the parking lot, Reese had already reached his car and started the engine. He tore off toward the street just as Javier pulled his Glock.

“Just get in the car,” Addison yelled. “He’ll be easy to catch in that piece of crap!”

They dashed to their car, taking their usual positions, and Javier left the parking lot in such a hurry that the tires squealed and the car lurched forward as they gave chase. As they merged onto the street, Javier hit the switch for the sirens. Reese's Honda had a significant head start, but it was also an older vehicle that clearly hadn't been well maintained. Black smoke poured from its exhaust pipe, and the engine made grinding noises that suggested it might not survive a prolonged chase.

They followed him onto the main street, weaving through afternoon traffic as Reese ran red lights and swerved between lanes. Other drivers honked and pulled over as the chase moved through the industrial district, with Addison calling in their location and requesting backup units to help with containment. As she was on the phone, Javier had to jerk the wheel hard to avoid hitting a man crossing the street, his eyes so glued to his phone that he didn’t even see the car barreling down on him until the last minute.

"He's heading toward downtown," Javier said, taking a hard right turn as Reese's Honda disappeared around a corner.

The chase moved into the narrow streets of Pioneer Square, where the old brick buildings and limited parking created a maze of one-way streets and tight corners. The sirens wailed as Javier closed the space. It also helped that Reese's knowledge of the area seemed limited; he made several errant turns at the last minute, causing him to slow down.

"Left, left!" Addison shouted as Reese's Honda skidded around a corner ahead of them.

They were now racing through the International District, past restaurants and shops with tourists and pedestrians scrambling to get out of the way. Reese sideswiped a parked car while trying to squeeze between two delivery trucks, sending sparks flying and creating a shower of broken plastic and metal. Javier let out a curse, though he managed to expertly avoid any damage to their own car.

Reese continued pushing the vehicle beyond its limits, running stop signs and cutting through parking lots in an increasingly desperate attempt to escape. With another hectic turn, Reese guided the Honda into a narrow alley behind a row of shops. The alley was barely wide enough for two cars, with dumpsters and loading docks creating obstacles on both sides. Reese clipped one of the dumpsters while trying to maintain speed, sending his Honda into a wobbling skid that nearly brought it into contact with the brick wall.

As they emerged from the alley onto First Avenue, Addison could smell something burning—something sweet and mechanical. She assumed it was something from under the hood of Reese’s car. Back on the streets, they were now nearing Pike Place Market. Reese's Honda shot into the intersection without stopping, causing a taxi to slam on its brakes and a group of tourists to dive for safety behind parked cars.

"Jesus, he's going to kill someone," Addison said, gripping the dashboard as Javier navigated through the chaos.

The Honda was now trailing smoke and making mechanical noises that suggested imminent engine failure. But Reese kept pushing forward, turning onto Pine Street and heading uphill toward Capitol Hill.

"He's slowing down," Javier observed, closing the distance between their vehicles.

Halfway up the hill, disaster struck. A pedestrian stepped into the crosswalk ahead of them, apparently unaware of the high-speed chase bearing down on the intersection. Reese apparently saw the person at the last second and yanked the wheel hard to the left, sending the Honda into a skidding turn that carried it up onto the sidewalk. The car clipped a fire hydrant and launched into the air before coming down hard on its front wheels.

The impact collapsed the front suspension and sent the car sliding sideways into a row of produce stands. Vendors screamed and ran for cover as the Honda came to a rest. Steam and smoke poured from the engine compartment as the car finally come to a complete stop, its front end completely demolished.

Javier pulled their sedan to a screeching stop and they both jumped out, running toward the wreckage with weapons drawn. The Honda's airbag had deployed, and they could see Reese moving inside the vehicle, dazed but apparently conscious. He looked in their direction, dazed and with blood covering the lower half of his face.

Addison reached the driver's side door first and yanked it open. Now, Reese was slumped over the steering wheel, blood pouring from his nose and a swollen lip where the airbag had caught him. His eyes were unfocused, and he was making weak attempts to unbuckle his seatbelt.

"Oliver Reese, you're under arrest," Javier said, pulling Reese from the car and turning him around to apply handcuffs.

Reese didn't resist as the cuffs clicked into place. He seemed to have been knocked slightly silly, not fully aware of what was going on. The fight had gone out of him with the crash, and he sagged against their car looking defeated and exhausted. Blood from his busted lip had stained his shirt, and his hands shook as the adrenaline from the chase began to wear off.

"That was really stupid," Addison said, checking him for other injuries. "You could have killed someone."

Reese looked up at her with bleary eyes, the reality of his situation finally sinking in. The desperate flight that had started with a leap from a motel balcony had ended with him in handcuffs. The sound of approaching sirens filled the air as backup units and emergency vehicles converged on the scene. But the chase was over, and they finally had Oliver Reese in custody.

And given the desperation and fear that had pushed him toward such a reckless escape attempt, Addison was still willing to hope that in Reese, they’d found their killer.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A one-way mirror dominated one of the walls in Interrogation Room 2 in the lower levels of the Seattle field office. Oliver Reese kept looking at it as if it were magic, like he hoped a portal might open up inside of it and he could slip through, out of this mess. He sat hunched over the table, his handcuffed wrists resting in front of him. The cut on his lip had stopped bleeding, but it had swollen enough to distort his speech slightly. His clothes were rumpled and stained from the car crash, and he kept glancing nervously between Addison and Javier as they settled into chairs across from him.

Addison placed a digital recorder on the table and stated the time, date, and participants for the record. The sound of her voice seemed unnaturally loud in the small room, and she could see Reese flinch at the formality of the process. Javier grinned at her from where he stood, leaving against the wall.

"Oliver, you've been read your rights," she began, her tone professional but not hostile. "Do you understand those rights as they were explained to you?"

"Yeah," Reese said, his voice hoarse. "I understand them."

"And you've declined to have an attorney present?"

"I can't afford one anyway." He shifted in his chair, the handcuffs clinking against the metal table. "Look, I know I'm in trouble here, but I… look, I made some mistakes, you know?”

“You did,” Javier agreed. “But the way you tried running from us—the reckless and foolish way you did it—makes us wonder just how big some of those mistakes might have been. So, why don’t you save yourself a lot of extra trouble and cooperate with us?”

“Okay, what do you need to know?”

“We have security footage from Horizon on the night a good deal of HC-47 was stolen. There is a masked figure making his way through the building with eerie familiarity. Any idea who that might be?”

Reese's eyes darted between them, and Addison could see him calculating how much he should reveal. The nervousness that had driven him to run from the motel was still there, but now it was mixed with the resignation of someone who knew his options had run out.

"Yeah, that was me," he said finally. Addison did her best to hide her shock; she’d not expected such a blatant confession "After they fired me. I was pissed off and I needed money, so I went back and took some equipment."

"What kind of equipment?" Addison asked.

"Laboratory stuff. Measuring devices, storage containers. Nothing that would be missed right away." He paused, then added reluctantly, "And some chemical compounds."

"What kind of chemical compounds?"

Reese was quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands. When he looked up, his expression was defiant but tinged with fear. "HC-47. Like you said.”

“And just for the record,” Javier said, “can you give us a brief explanation of what HC-47 does?”

“It’s an experimental cooling agent they’ve been developing for a year or so."

Addison felt a surge of satisfaction at finally getting the confession, but she kept her expression neutral. Confessing to the Horizon break-in was a far cry from confessing to the potential use of HC-47 to murder people."

“How did you gain access to the facility?"

"I still had my security card. They were supposed to deactivate it when they fired me, but there was some kind of administrative delay. I had a tech guy I know clone the data and program it into a device that works as a sort of reverse-card reader. I used it to get in during the night shift when hardly anyone was around."

"And you knew where to find the HC-47?"

"Of course, I knew. I worked on the project for months before they terminated me. I knew exactly where everything was stored and how to access it without triggering the security protocols."

“Why did you take that specific compound?” Javier asked.

“I had a buyer… someone who wanted to buy some. And they knew I might have access.”

Javier made notes on his pad while Addison continued the questioning. "Oliver, I need you to understand something. We're not here about simple theft. We're investigating murders. People have been killed with HC-47."

She watched him closely, trying to get a read from his expression. What she witnessed was the color draining from Reese's face. "Murders? What are you talking about?"

"Two people have been found dead, killed with the compound you stole from Horizon. And based on coroner’s reports, it looks like they were frozen from the inside out using HC-47 or something very similar."

"No, no, no." Reese shook his head vigorously. "That's not possible. I sold that stuff two weeks ago. I don't even have it anymore."

Addison exchanged glances with Javier. This was the crucial moment—either Reese was lying to cover up his crimes, or someone else had the stolen compounds and was using them to commit murder. Of course, if he had sold them, it might be easy to find out who the buyer was… or if he was just trying to save his ass and hadn’t sold it at all.

"Tell us about this sale," she said.

Reese slumped back in his chair, the fight going out of him. "I needed money. Bad.” For a second, it looked like he was wrestling with his emotions—that he might start weeping out of shame or embarrassment. “I owed people money, and they aren't the kind of people you want to keep waiting."

"Gambling debts?"

"Yeah. Sports betting, mostly. I got in over my head, and the guys I borrowed from weren't very understanding about payment schedules." He touched his swollen lip gingerly. "This isn't the first time they've sent me a message."

“Was the attempted mugging from a few months ago linked to this?”

He nodded.

"So, you decided to steal from your former employer?"

"When the opportunity to make good money by stealing from them… it was an easy decision.”

“How did this buyer find you?” Javier asked.

Reese was quiet for a moment, as if debating how much to reveal. "Word gets around when you're looking for quick money. Some of the guys I gamble with know people who deal in...  unconventional transactions."

"What kind of people?"

"People who can move stolen goods without asking too many questions. I… shit, I did put the word out that I had access to stuff from Horizon. I was mad at them and needed money and… it just seemed like an easy solution. And eventually, someone contacted me."

Addison leaned forward. "What’s the buyer’s name?"

Reese laughed nervously and said, “He only ever called himself Smith. I knew it was bullshit. I mean, nobody's real name is Smith when they're buying stolen laboratory compounds in a parking lot."

Second by second, Addison grew every more certain that Reese was not their killer. But he also seemed willing enough to offer whatever information he could to prove his innocence.

"Middle-aged guy, maybe forty-five or fifty. Well-dressed, expensive clothes, but he seemed nervous as hell. Like he'd never done anything like this before."

"What did he look like?"

"Average height, maybe five-ten. Brown hair, sort of shaggy but in a styled way. He wore a nice suit—looked like it cost more than I made in a month at Horizon. Had soft hands, like he worked in an office, not in a shop or anything with hard labor, you know?"

"Where did the sale take place?"

"In a parking lot behind a restaurant in Georgetown. Really late. Two in the morning, if I remember correctly.”

“What were you paid?” Addison asked.

"Forty grand in cash. Small bills, nothing traceable. He had it in a briefcase like something out of a movie." Reese shook his head.

“Did he tell you why he wanted it?”

“No, and I didn’t ask. I figured he may have been with a competitor, maybe a start-up looking to pass Horizon in biotech studies.”

“Anything weird about him or the interaction that you can remember?” Addison asked.

She saw him forming his mouth to make the word no, but then he seemed to think of something. "Actually, yeah. He kept asking questions about the compound that didn't make sense. Most people buying stolen research want to know about commercial applications, how to reverse-engineer it, that kind of thing. This guy wanted to know about dosages and injection methods."

Addison felt a chill. This was it. Reese had sold the compound to their killer. "What did you tell him?"

"I gave him the basic technical specifications—concentration levels, storage requirements, that sort of thing. But when he started asking about how much would be needed to 'achieve the desired effect,' I got suspicious. Creeped out, too."

"The desired effect for what?"

"That's what I asked him. He got all evasive and said he was working on an experimental medical application… which was another reason I assumed he was working with a competitor. But the questions he was asking didn't sound medical to me."

"If he creeped you out, as you said,” Javier said, “why didn't you refuse to sell to him?"

Reese's expression grew defensive. "Because I needed the money. I had people threatening to break my legs if I didn't pay them back, and this guy was offering enough to clear my debts and then some. I figured whatever he was planning to do with it wasn't my problem."

"But you suspected it wasn't legitimate research?"

"I thought maybe he was working for a competitor, trying to steal Horizon's research and claim it as their own. Industrial espionage like I said. It happens all the time."

Javier leaned forward, and Addison note a tightness in his brow… a sure sign that he was growing angry. "Oliver, did it ever occur to you that someone might use a compound designed to freeze tissue as a weapon?"

"No!" Reese's voice rose, and he leaned forward as much as his handcuffs would allow. "I never thought anyone would use it to hurt people. HC-47 was developed for medical applications—anesthesia, nerve blocking, that kind of thing. The idea of using it to kill someone never even crossed my mind. It’s pretty much insanity."

"But you knew it was dangerous if used incorrectly?"

"Of course, I knew it was dangerous. All laboratory compounds are dangerous if you don't know what you're doing. But I assumed anyone buying CH-47—to even know to ask for it at all—would have the technical knowledge to use it safely."

Addison stood up and walked to the one-way mirror, studying Reese's reflection as she considered their options. His story was consistent and delivered with enough detail to suggest he was telling the truth. The nervousness, the gambling debts, the desperation for quick money—it all fit the profile of someone who would steal and sell stolen goods without considering the consequences.

But it also meant their investigation was back to square one. Instead of having their killer in custody, they had a small-time thief whose poor judgment had put a dangerous weapon in the hands of someone willing to use it for murder.

"This buyer," she said, turning back to face Reese. "Did he seem like someone who knew how to use the compound?"

"That's the thing—he didn't. He asked basic questions about storage and handling that any chemist would already know. It was like he was learning about it for the first time."

"Did he mention what he planned to do with it?"

"Just that vague stuff about experimental medical applications. But now that you're telling me people have been killed..." Reese trailed off, staring at the table. "Jesus, did I… did I equip a killer?”

"You've sold a dangerous compound to someone who's using it to commit murder," Javier confirmed bluntly. "Two people are already dead, and there's enough HC-47 out there to kill dozens more."

"I swear I didn't know,” he said, and now the tears were indeed flowing. “If I had any idea he was planning to hurt people, I never would have sold it to him. I swear!"

Addison returned to her chair, studying Reese's expression for signs of deception. His distress seemed genuine, but she'd interviewed enough criminals to know that appearances could be deceptive.

"Oliver, I need you to think very carefully about everything you remember about this buyer. Any detail, no matter how small, could help us find him before he kills again."

"I've told you everything I remember. Average-looking guy in an expensive suit who seemed nervous and didn't know much about chemistry."

"How did he contact you initially?"

"There was a note on my car one night when I was coming out of a bar."

“And what did it say?”

“I don’t remember exactly. But it was sort and sweet. Just a few sentences, letting me know they needed an experimental compound being used for preservation… that they’d heard Horizon had been working on it when I was fired. I guess… I guess he heard about my willingness to steal from Horizon. And now that I look back on it… it should have been a red flag that he didn’t even know what the compound was called.”

"And you're certain he didn't give you any clues about his identity or what he really planned to do with the compound?"

"Nothing. He was very careful not to reveal anything personal."

Addison felt their lead slipping away like water through her fingers. They'd arrested the thief, but the killer was still out there with enough stolen HC-47 to continue his murder spree. And their only description was of a middle-aged man in an expensive suit who seemed nervous and inexperienced.

She looked at Javier, who gave her a slight nod. They needed to step outside and discuss their next moves.

"We're going to take a break," Addison said, stopping the recorder. "Oliver, I want you to think about anything else you might remember about this buyer. Any detail could be important. And we are going to have to keep you for a while. even if you’re not the killer we’re looking for, you confessed to breaking into Horizon and stealing a deadly compound."

Reese nodded and continued to cry as he stared to the floor.

As they left the interrogation room, Addison could see Reese slumped over the table, the weight of his situation finally sinking in. He'd stolen compounds to pay off gambling debts, and now those compounds were being used to commit murder. Whether he'd intended it or not, he was partially responsible for the deaths of two innocent people.

And while he sat at that interrogation room table weighing the cost of his sins, their real killer was preparing to strike again.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Javier's office was smaller than Addison's but somehow felt more organized. Where her workspace was dominated by whiteboards covered in seemingly random notes and connections, his was methodical and clean. A single bulletin board hung behind his desk, populated with case photos and timelines that followed logical progressions. His coffee mug sat on a coaster, and even his pens were arranged in a small metal container rather than scattered across the desk surface.

Addison settled into the chair across from his desk, cradling a fresh cup of coffee The interrogation with Oliver Reese had left her feeling frustrated and oddly drained. They'd gotten answers, but not the ones they'd hoped for.

"So what's your gut telling you about Reese?" Javier asked, leaning back in his chair.

"That he's telling the truth." She took a sip of coffee and made a face. "But I think is truth makes this case a lot more complicated.”

"Same. But what do you think?"

"I think he's exactly what he appears to be—a desperate guy who made a series of increasingly bad decisions. The gambling debts, the theft, selling to a stranger without asking questions. It all fits together too neatly to be fabricated."

Javier nodded, starting at the ceiling in thought. "The details about the buyer are what convince me. If Reese were making it up, he'd probably create someone more memorable. A scary criminal type, maybe, or someone with obvious red flags. Instead, he describes a nervous middle-aged guy in a nice suit."

"Exactly. And the questions about dosages and injection methods—that's not something Reese would think to include if he were lying. He’d want to lay down specifics to make us really think this guy was some sort of a mastermind. And you know… assuming Reese is telling the truth, the buyer's questions about dosages bother me."

“Why?”

"Reese said the guy seemed inexperienced with chemistry, but he was asking the right questions for someone planning to use HC-47 as a weapon."

"Maybe he had help. Someone with more technical knowledge guiding him."

"Or maybe he's smarter than he appeared to Reese. Playing dumb to avoid seeming suspicious while gathering the information he needed."

"Either way, we've got a middle-aged man in an expensive suit who's nervous, has soft hands, and doesn't know much about chemistry but is asking the right questions about a compound he plans to use for murder."

"It's not much to go on."

"No, it's not. Which brings us to our next move. We could try tracking down people in Reese's gambling circle, see if anyone else was approached by this mysterious buyer."

Addison turned away from the window to face him. "You think that's worth our time?"

"Honestly? Probably not. Expecting the truth out of a circle of gambling addicts might not be the best use of our time. These aren't exactly people known for their honesty or reliable memories. But if nothing else breaks soon, we may have to try it. So… you know… prepare yourself."

"What about the restaurant where the sale took place? Georgetown, he said. We could check security cameras, see if we can spot our buyer."

"Two weeks ago, late at night, in a parking lot behind a restaurant,” Javier said. “The odds of finding useful footage are pretty slim, but it's worth a shot for sure."

Addison was about to respond when Javier's desk phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and held up a finger before answering with his usual crisp professionalism.

"This is Agent Esposito." His expression shifted as he listened, and Addison could see him reaching for a pen. "When? Where?" He scribbled notes quickly on the back of a printout lying on his desk. "We'll be there in twenty minutes."

He hung up and looked at Addison with grim satisfaction. "That was Seattle PD. They've got another body in the same apparently impossible circumstances. Sophia Ruiz, found frozen in her home at a retirement community."

Addison felt her stomach drop. Another victim meant their killer was escalating, perfecting his technique with each murder. It also meant they were running out of time to stop him before he struck again. He was out there taking lives while they kept running around in the dark.

"Same cooling technique?"

"Sounds like it. Body found in normal temperature environment, no visible cause of death, but the cops on the scene say she’s cold to the touch.”

Addison was already gathering her things, her mind shifting into investigation mode. "How long has she been dead?"

"Estimated time of death is early this morning. The body was discovered by maintenance staff around three when she didn't answer her door for a scheduled appointment."

They left Javier’s office and made their way quickly through the field office, past cubicles where other agents were wrapping up their own cases for the day. The urgency of their situation felt surreal against the normal office routine happening around them, the day winding down at its usual normal pace. People were discussing weekend plans and complaining about paperwork while Addison and Javier raced to investigate the third murder in a killing spree that showed no signs of slowing down.

***

The drive to Sunset Gardens retirement community took them south through Seattle's residential neighborhoods. Javir sped past houses where families were settling in for dinner and children played in yards despite a slightly overcast sky. Javier navigated the traffic while Addison pulled up information about Sophia Ruiz on her phone, searching for any connection to their previous victims.

"Sophia Ruiz, age sixty-four," she read from the search results. "She was a former prima ballerina with Pacific Northwest Ballet. Retired five years ago after a distinguished thirty-five-year career."

"Another artist," Javier observed, taking a left turn onto a tree-lined boulevard.

"Looks like it. She performed leading roles in major productions—Swan Lake, Giselle, The Nutcracker. Multiple awards and recognitions for her contributions to dance in the Pacific Northwest. A residency in Prague in 2002." Addison scrolled through more results, looking for recent information. "Here's something from three years ago. An interview where she discusses her retirement and the challenges of leaving professional dance."

"What kind of challenges?"

"Physical ones, mostly. She mentions dealing with chronic pain from decades of performance, but she's pretty vague about specifics." Addison found another article, this one from a local arts magazine. "This piece from last year talks about her occasional teaching at community centers and dance studios. Same pattern as our other victims—continued involvement in the arts even after retiring from professional work."

"Any mention of health problems?"

"Not directly, but there are some hints. She talks about the difficulty of accepting physical limitations and learning to find new ways to express her artistry."

Ten minutes later, Javier slowed as they approached the entrance to Sunset Gardens. The retirement community spread before them like a carefully planned village, with low buildings connected by covered walkways and surrounded by meticulously maintained landscaping. Everything about the place was designed for safety and convenience, from the wide parking spaces to the bright lighting along every pathway.

"Depressing… but in a charming way," Javier said as they pulled into the visitor parking area.

"It's practical. When you can't trust your body anymore, you need an environment that compensates for your limitations." Addison looked around at the subdued earth tones and institutional design. "But yeah, it's depressing as hell."

They found the building where Sophia Ruiz had lived, based on the information Javier had been given on the phone. It was a single-story structure that housed four apartments arranged around a small courtyard. Police tape cordoned off Sophia’s unit, and a Seattle PD officer stood guard outside the door. Crime scene technicians moved in and out of the apartment, their equipment cases and cameras creating a controlled chaos around the entrance.

As they showed their badges to the cop standing guard, a sharp-dressed woman approached from the edge of the unit. Addison recognized her from previous joint investigations—Detective Maria Santos, a competent, no-nonsense investigator who didn't waste time on jurisdictional politics. Addison had only worked with her on a handful of occasions but she liked her immensely.

"Agents," Santos said, shaking hands with both of them. "This is a weird one, but from what I hear, this will be the third you’ve seen. The victim appears to have died of hypothermia, but the apartment's climate control was set to seventy-four degrees and externally, she seems fine… aside from being a little blue."

"Any signs of forced entry?" Addison asked.

"None. The place was locked up tight when maintenance found her. They had to use their master key to get in."

Addison pulled on latex gloves as they approached the apartment entrance. "What can you tell us about the scene?"

“Ms. Ruiz is positioned on the living room couch, legs propped up, looking peaceful. But unlike what you described from your other crime scenes, this one shows signs of a struggle." She nodded to the door and said, “Help yourselves.”

The apartment was small but comfortable, decorated with photographs and memorabilia from Sophia's dancing career. Framed posters from ballet productions lined the walls, and a glass display case held awards and programs from performances dating back decades. The living room was dominated by a comfortable sectional couch positioned to face a large television and a wall of windows overlooking the community's central courtyard.

But it was immediately obvious that something violent had occurred here. A coffee table was pushed several feet from its normal position, and a lamp lay on its side near the couch. Magazines were scattered across the floor, and a throw pillow sat in the corner as if it had been flung there during a struggle.

"Definitely different from Montgomery and Hawthorn," Javier observed, stepping carefully around the displaced furniture.

Sophia Ruiz lay on the couch in a position that looked almost posed. Her legs were propped up on a cushion, and her hands were folded peacefully across her chest. She wore a simple white dress that could have been either sleepwear or dance attire, and her feet were adorned with well-worn ballet slippers that looked like they'd seen decades of use.

But despite the peaceful final positioning, the evidence of struggle was unmistakable. Her hair, which had probably been arranged in an elegant style, was disheveled. Small bruises on her wrists suggested she'd been restrained at some point, and there were scratches on her arms that looked defensive in nature.

"She fought him," Addison said, kneeling beside the couch to examine the body more closely.

"Which means our killer isn't as in control of his process as he was with the first two victims," Javier said.

Addison studied Sophia's face, noting the same peaceful expression they'd seen on Montgomery and Hawthorn. Whatever compound had been used to kill her, it had worked quickly once administered. The blue tinge to her skin confirmed the hypothermia that had caused her death.

"Detective Santos, has the medical examiner arrived yet?"

"On her way,” she said from behind them. “Should be here within the hour."

Addison carefully examined Sophia's neck and arms, looking for injection sites. Both previous victims had shown clear evidence of where the HC-47 had been administered—Montgomery in the neck, Hawthorn in the forearm. But despite careful inspection, she couldn't find any obvious puncture wounds in the usual locations. She even pulled out her phone and opened the camera app, using the zoom function as a makeshift magnifying glass to get a closer look at Sophia's skin. The technique wasn't perfect, but it allowed her to examine areas more carefully than the naked eye would permit.

"Find anything?" Javier asked, positioning himself where he could see what she was looking at.

"Nothing obvious. No injection sites in the neck or arms where we found them on the other victims." She continued her examination, checking Sophia's hands and wrists. "But the killer had to inject the compound somewhere. Remember, the compound doesn't work through skin contact or inhalation."

"Maybe he's changing his technique again. Experimenting with different administration methods."

Addison moved to examine Sophia's legs and feet, still using her phone's camera to look for puncture wounds. It was near her ankle that she found what she was looking for—a tiny mark, barely visible, hidden beneath the elastic strap of one ballet slipper.

"There," she said, pointing to the spot. "Injection site near the ankle. Much less obvious than the neck or arm locations he used before."

"More difficult to access, though. Especially if the victim is struggling."

"Which explains why there was a fight this time. He probably tried to restrain her to get access to the injection site, and she fought back." Addison stood up, studying the scene again with this new information. "Look at the positioning of the furniture. The coffee table isn't just moved—it's been shoved aside, probably during the struggle. And that lamp fell when one of them knocked into it."

Javier walked around the room, noting the subtle signs of violence that had been hastily cleaned up. "So, our killer is still experimenting with his technique. Still trying to perfect his method… maybe trying to figure out where he can inject it and get the quickest results."

"Which means he's probably not done. If he's still refining his approach, he's planning to use it again."

"What kind of compound causes this kind of internal freezing?” Santos asked, stepping closer. “I've never seen anything like it."

"We believe it’s an experimental cooling agent stolen from a research facility," Addison explained. "Designed for medical applications, but deadly if used incorrectly. We arrested the thief this afternoon, but he sold the compound to someone else two weeks ago."

"Any leads on the buyer?"

"Middle-aged man, well-dressed, nervous. Not much to go on." Javier shook his head grimly. "And now he's killed three people while perfecting his technique."

Addison looked around the apartment again, taking in the evidence of Sophia's life and career. The ballet memorabilia told the story of someone who had dedicated her entire existence to art and performance. Like Montgomery and Hawthorn, she'd been an artist facing the end of her career, dealing with physical limitations that would eventually steal her ability to do what she loved.

"We need to establish what condition Sophia was dealing with," she said. "Both previous victims had neurological disorders that would have ended their artistic careers. If the pattern holds, she was probably facing something similar. There were hints and indications online that she might be dealing with something…"

"I can check with her doctors," Santos offered. "May take a day or two to get through the privacy requirements, but we can make it happen."

As the afternoon light faded outside the windows, the apartment felt heavy with the weight of interrupted dreams and stolen time. Sophia had lived here for what appeared to be several years, creating a space that honored her past while accepting her present limitations. Now she lay posed in ballet slippers, frozen in time by someone who claimed to be preserving her artistic legacy. And then something occurred to her—a potential shortcut that might save them a day or so.

“Wait…the residents in this community are sixty and over, right?”

“That’s right,” Santos said.

“So, what if there is an on-site doctor. I mean… it makes sense, right?”

“It does,” Santos said excitedly. “Let me see what I can find out.” She hurried away through the front door, back out near the courtyard, leaving Addison and Javier alone in the apartment.

“You think the killer put the ballet slippers on her?” Javier asked.

“You mean, as opposed to her walking around with them on all the time? Yes, probably.”

“So, what the hell is this guy up to?”

Addison checked the apartment over, looking in the bedroom and a small supply closet for any indication that the killer might have found the ballet slippers stored away. Or maybe, she supposed, he had taken them from a shelf or table, along with the other mementos from her past she had displayed.

She’d been looking for no more than three minutes when Detective Santos came hurrying back into the apartment. “Agents? You were right… there is a small team of doctors on-site. And I just spoke with the lead nurse on the phone. She’s on her way here to speak with you right now.”

It was a huge break, and just when they needed one. Addison found herself daring to be excited, to perhaps start kicking a can down a trail that would finally lead to results. “Thanks, Detective.”

“We’d better get outside and cut her off,” Javier said. He nodded back to Sophia Ruiz’s body and said, “She probably doesn’t need to see this.”

Addison nodded, and they walked outside together as the afternoon was fading to evening. Time was running out, and Addison could feel the weight of each passing minute pressing against her chest like a stone.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Dolores Berryhill appeared in the courtyard of Sophia's apartment just as the crime scene technicians were finishing their initial documentation inside. Berryhill was a woman of about fifty with graying brown hair pulled back in a playful bun. She had kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, bright and blue. Her white coat was pristine despite the late hour, and she carried herself with the confident bearing of someone who had spent decades caring for elderly patients.

"I understand you wanted to speak with me about Sophia," she said, her voice carrying a slight tremor of emotion. "This is such a tragedy. She was one of our most vibrant residents."

Addison and Javier had situated themselves on a small wooden bench in the courtyard. Several different types of flowers that Addison could not name created colorful pops here and there among the dusk. Not too far behind them, Detective Santos was coordinating with the medical examiner, who had finally arrived.

“Yes, and thanks for taking the time,” Addison said. They underwent a quick round of introductions as Javier stood up from the bench, offering his seat to Dr. Berryhill.

"Dr. Berryhill, Sophia’s death is not only peculiar, but it is one of three that are linked in the same strange way,” Addison said. “And to find the answers we need, we have to get a better understanding of her medical condition."

Dr. Berryhill's expression grew cautious. "I'm sure you understand that patient confidentiality is something I take very seriously. Even after death, I have ethical obligations to protect Sophia's privacy."

"We understand that," Javier said. "But we believe Sophia's murder may be connected to her medical condition. These murders… we believe the killer is targeting artists with neurological disorders."

"Murders?" Dr. Berryhill's eyes widened. "You're saying someone killed Sophia? But how? Why?”

Addison was typically careful about releasing details of a case, particularly murder methods, in order to avoid panic or copycat crimes. But she knew that Dr. Berryhill's cooperation might be crucial to understanding the killer's victim selection process.

"The method is... unusual," Addison said carefully. "Someone is using an experimental compound to cause rapid hypothermia. The victims appear to die peacefully, but they're actually being murdered with a stolen laboratory agent."

Dr. Berryhill pressed her hand to her chest, clearly shocked. "That's horrifying. Someone is targeting people because of their medical conditions?"

"We believe so. Both previous victims had neurological disorders that were affecting their artistic abilities. We need to know if Sophia fit the same pattern. It could be a huge bit of information to help move this case forward."

Dr. Berryhill was quiet for a moment, wrestling with her professional obligations and her desire to help catch Sophia's killer. When she spoke, her voice was resigned but determined.

"Sophia suffered from epilepsy," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "It was a relatively recent diagnosis, about two years ago. The seizures were becoming more frequent and more severe, which is why she moved to our community. She needed a safe environment where someone would be available if she had an episode."

"How was it affecting her daily life?" Addison asked.

"Significantly. Sophia had always been incredibly active and independent, but the epilepsy was forcing her to accept limitations she'd never had to deal with before. She could still drive but only immediately after she’d taken her medications. But for the most part, she was reaching the point where it was risky for her to live alone.” Dr. Berryhill's expression grew sad as she spoke about her patient. "For someone who had spent her entire life in control of her body, someone whose career depended on precise physical coordination, losing that control was devastating. She tried to maintain a positive attitude, but I could see how much she was struggling."

"Was she still involved in dance despite her condition?" Javier asked.

"Oh yes, as much as she could be. She taught occasional classes at community centers when she was feeling well. For the past several months, she had to have an assistant help with it. She also spent time mentoring young dancers and helping with choreography for local productions. Dance was everything to her—she couldn't imagine a life without it."

Addison made notes on her phone as Dr. Berryhill spoke. “Did Sophia ever mention feeling depressed or hopeless about her condition?" she asked as she typed.

"She had her moments, certainly. But Sophia was remarkably resilient. She was always looking for ways to adapt, to find new ways to express her artistry despite the epilepsy." Dr. Berryhill paused, seeming to remember something. "Actually, she'd been working with a researcher recently. Someone who was studying cognitive retention in people with neurological conditions. She was supposed to be helping Sophia learn new ways to cope with her new way of life."

"What kind of researcher?" Addison asked, sensing that this could be another significant step.

"Oh, I don’t know all of the ins and outs, but she’s a neurological researcher specializing in cognitive retention. Sophia was participating in some kind of study about how people maintain their skills and identity when dealing with progressive neurological conditions."

"Do you remember the researcher's name?"

"Dr. Samantha Hayes, I believe. Sophia spoke very highly of her, said she was doing important work that could help other people in similar situations. From what I gathered, they got along remarkably well."

Javier leaned forward. "What was the nature of their relationship? Was it purely professional?"

"As far as I know, yes. Sophia would meet with Dr. Hayes every few weeks for interviews and assessments. She said Dr. Hayes was particularly interested in how artists cope with conditions that affect their ability to create."

"Did Sophia ever mention other participants in this study?"

Dr. Berryhill nodded, her expression growing more animated as she recalled the conversations. "Oh yes, she was quite excited about it. She said Dr. Hayes was working with several other creative types from the area, people facing similar challenges."

Addison felt the pieces clicking into place and had to force herself to sit still as the excitement charged through her. A researcher studying artists with neurological conditions would have access to exactly the kind of victims their killer was targeting. And if Dr. Hayes was interviewing these people regularly, she would know intimate details about their conditions and their struggles.

"Dr. Berryhill, do you remember any specific details about Dr. Hayes's other research subjects?"

"Well, Sophia mentioned that Dr. Hayes was working with a famous pianist from the area. She was quite impressed by that—a guy named David Montgomery, I think. Sophia said Dr. Hayes would go on and on about how she was working with someone so accomplished."

The connection hit Addison like a physical blow. David Montgomery had been their second victim, and now they knew he'd been participating in the same research study as Sophia Ruiz. The killer wasn't just randomly targeting artists with neurological conditions—he was specifically targeting participants in Dr. Samantha Hayes's research from the looks of it.

"Dr. Berryhill, this is extremely important. Do you have contact information for Dr. Hayes?"

"I should be able to find it in our database. We keep records of outside medical professionals our residents are working with." Dr. Berryhill pulled out her phone and scrunched up her eye in concentration as she started looking. She tapped and scrolled and scrolled some more. Even though in all reality it only took about fifteen seconds, it felt like fifteen minutes to Addison. “Ah, here it is!” she said finally. “Dr. Samantha Hayes, University of Washington Medical Center. I have her office number and email address."

Addison copied the information into her phone, her mind already racing ahead to their next steps. If Dr. Hayes had been interviewing all three victims, she might be able to provide a complete list of other potential targets. She might also have insights into who else had access to her research or knew about her study participants.

"Thank you, Dr. Berryhill. You've been incredibly helpful."

"I hope you catch whoever did this. Sophia deserved so much better than this. She was a wonderful woman who brought joy to everyone around her." She shook her head and refused to look at the for a moment, struggling to keep herself together.

As Dr. Berryhill walked away, giving a brief glimpse to Sophia’s apartment as she did so, Addison and Javier stepped deeper into the courtyard, in the direction of a small flower garden adjacent to Sophia's building. The dusk was settling over Seattle, painting the sky in shades of purple and gold. The garden was beautifully maintained, with carefully arranged beds of seasonal flowers and a small fountain that provided a gentle background murmur. Under different circumstances, it would have been a peaceful place to sit and reflect.

"This has to be our break," Javier said as Addison dialed Dr. Hayes's number. "A researcher with access to all three victims? Someone who knew their conditions and their personal struggles?"

"Let's see what she has to say before we jump to conclusions,” Addison said. “But yeah, this feels like the connection we've been looking for."

The phone rang three times before a woman's voice answered. "Dr. Hayes speaking."

"Dr. Hayes, this is Agent Addison Shine with the FBI,” she said as she placed the call on speaker mode so Javier could listen in and participate. “I'm calling regarding your research involving artists with neurological conditions."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "I'm sorry, what is this regarding? I don't understand why the FBI would be interested in my research."

"We're investigating a series of murders, and we believe some of your research participants may have been victims. I…well, I hate to tell you this but—"

“Yes, I know all about David Montogomery. It’s absolutely appalling.”

“Well, I hate to tell you this, but Sophia Ruiz has also been murdered… in the exact same way as Montgomery.”

"So... Sophia?" Dr. Hayes's voice rose sharply. "Oh my God, you’re certain?”

"Yes, ma'am. We're at the crime scene right now. Her on-site doctor, Dr. Berryhill, gave us your information."

The silence that followed lasted so long that Addison wondered if the call had been disconnected. When Dr. Hayes finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"That's impossible. David and Sophia?”

“Yes. And… God, I hate to even ask, but were you by any chance working with Margaret Hawthorn?”

“Yes, I w—no. All three of them?” She nearly shrieked it, her voice high and tight.

"Yes, ma'am. And we have reason to believe their deaths are connected to their participation in your research study."

“I don’t… I… I’m sorry but please… can you give me just a second to…”

She went quiet again, and Addison could hear the woman breathing heavily on the other end as she processed the terrible information. When she finally started speaking again, she did so through tears.

“What can I do to help? I hope you aren’t suggesting that I—that my research somehow—" Dr. Hayes's voice became defensive, almost angry. "Agent Shine, I think there's been some kind of misunderstanding. My research involves interviews and cognitive assessments. I study how people maintain their identity and skills when dealing with neurological conditions. There's nothing dangerous about what I do."

"Dr. Hayes, we're not accusing you of anything. But we need to understand who else might have had access to information about your research participants."

"This is absurd. You're talking about murders, but these people had serious medical conditions. David had ALS, Margaret had Parkinson's, Sophia had epilepsy. If they died, it was probably related to their conditions, not some conspiracy involving my research."

She’s in denial, Addison thought. And I don’t blame her. I just dropped one hell of a bomb on her.

"Dr. Hayes, I need you to listen carefully. These people were murdered using an experimental cooling compound that causes rapid internal hypothermia. There is no doubt of it. It’s a fact and we’re trying to learn more about it. They absolutely did not die from their medical conditions. They were killed by someone using stolen laboratory equipment."

"Internal hypothermia? That's... that's science fiction. You can't freeze someone from the inside out. That's not how chemistry works."

"I assure you it's very real. We have autopsy reports showing extensive ice crystal formation throughout their organs. Someone is using an advanced cooling agent called HC-47 to kill these people. All three were artists in some way, all three had medical conditions and, as of about ten minutes ago, we also learned that they were all speaking with you in regards to your research."

Dr. Hayes was quiet again, and Addison could hear her breathing heavily through the phone. When she spoke, her voice was shaky and horrified.

"This is nightmare. These were wonderful people—artists who were dealing with incredibly difficult situations with grace and courage and...” She stopped again, taking a series of hitching breaths before she once again regained control. “The idea that someone would target them, would use them for... for this..." She trailed off, clearly struggling to process the information.

"We need your help to catch whoever is doing this. Can you tell us who else had access to information about your research participants?"

"I... I need a moment to think. This is all so overwhelming." Dr. Hayes paused, then continued with more composure. "My research is strictly confidential. The participants' information is protected by multiple privacy regulations. Only myself and my research assistant have access to the complete files."

"What about presentations, conferences, published papers? Could someone have learned about your participants through academic channels?"

"I present general findings, but I never use real names or identifying information,” Hayes replied. “Everything is anonymized to protect patient privacy."

Javier stepped closer to the phone, indicating he wanted to speak. Addison switched to speaker mode.

"Dr. Hayes, this is Agent Esposito. We understand this is difficult, but we need you to think about anyone who might have shown unusual interest in your work or asked specific questions about your participants."

"I...  there have been colleagues who've expressed interest in my research, but nothing that seemed inappropriate or suspicious."

"We're going to need a complete list of your research participants," Addison said. "If someone is targeting people in your study for whatever reason, it means the others are in danger."

"Of course, yes. I'll compile everything immediately. I’ll send the highlights from my research as well, if that will help. But agents, I want you to understand—my research is designed to help these people, to find ways to support artists dealing with neurological conditions. The idea that it's somehow being used to harm them is absolutely horrifying."

"We believe you, Dr. Hayes. Can you email us your research files as soon as possible? We need to identify other potential victims and get them protection as soon as possible."

"Yes, I'll send everything I have. Contact information, assessment notes, interview transcripts—anything that might help you catch this person. Give me… I don’t know, maybe ten or fifteen minutes. Where should I send it?”

Addison provided her email address, feeling the stir of promise… of maybe bringing this ordeal to an end. As the call ended, she looked out over the flower garden where the last light of day was fading into darkness. They finally had a concrete connection between all three victims, but they also had confirmation that more people were likely at risk. Somewhere in Dr. Hayes's research files was a list of artists with neurological conditions, and it seemed that their killer was working his way through that list one victim at a time.

The peaceful evening sounds of the retirement community seemed to mock the urgency of their situation. While elderly residents settled in for another quiet night, a killer was planning his next move with enough stolen compound to continue his sick preservation project for weeks or months to come.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The inside of Javier's sedan smelled like French fries and disappointment—two scents Addison felt she had become far too familiar with since making the transition from medical examiner to active FBI field agent. They'd stopped at a drive-through burger place on the way back to the field office, but had ended up parked in the restaurant's lot instead, too eager to review Dr. Hayes's research files to wait until they reached their desks. Addison balanced her laptop on her knees while trying to eat a burger that had gone cold twenty minutes ago. The combination of grease and urgency made for an unappetizing dinner, but she was too focused on the screen to care.

"Jesus," she said, scrolling through Dr. Hayes's interview transcripts. "This is heartbreaking."

Javier looked up from his own stack of printed files, a French fry halfway to his mouth. "What are you seeing?"

"These interview notes from David Montgomery. Listen to this." Addison read directly from the transcript. "Dr. Hayes asked him to describe what it felt like when his condition started affecting his playing. He said, 'It's like my hands are betraying me. I'll be in the middle of a passage I've played thousands of times, and suddenly my fingers won't obey. They move too slowly, or they skip notes, or they just freeze completely. It’s like they’ve already given up while my mind seems willing to carry on. It's not just frustrating—it's terrifying.'"

She scrolled down to another section. "And here's what he said about his upcoming retirement announcement: 'I keep thinking about the last time I'll play in public. How do you say goodbye to the thing that's defined your entire existence? How do you accept that your body is stealing your soul?"

Javier set down his food, his expression growing somber. "That's brutal."

"It gets worse. Margaret Hawthorn's interviews are even more devastating." Addison clicked to another file and found that she was getting teary-eyed over the stories. "She describes trying to sculpt and having her hands shake so badly that she couldn't control the tools. She said, 'I'll be working on a piece, completely absorbed in the creative process, and then the tremors start. It's like someone else takes control of my body. The chisel slips, the line goes wrong, and suddenly hours of work are ruined."

She found another passage and continued reading. "She told Dr. Hayes that she'd started having nightmares about her hands turning to stone, becoming as rigid and lifeless as the sculptures she used to create."

"And Sophia?"

Addison opened Sophia's file, scanning through a few pages of interview notes. "Sophia's interviews focus on the unpredictability of her seizures. She describes being in the middle of teaching a dance class when she'd feel the aura that preceded an episode. She said, 'I can sense it coming, but I can't stop it. My students look at me with such concern and fear. I used to be someone they looked up to, someone who embodied grace and control. Now I'm someone they have to watch carefully in case I collapse. I think they're starting to feel sorry for the assistant who accompanies me to these lessons."

The research painted a picture of artists watching their identities slowly dissolve as their bodies betrayed the very skills that defined them. Each interview revealed the psychological toll of losing not just physical abilities, but the core of who these people believed themselves to be.

"The first thing we did was right," Javier said, referring to their initial action upon receiving Dr. Hayes's files. "Getting those eight other names to local PD and the bureau so teams can go out and warn them while we continue trying to find the killer."

"Yeah, but I'm starting to think we may have been looking at this all wrong." Addison closed the laptop and leaned back against the car seat. "We've been assuming this is some kind of mercy killing, right? Someone who thinks he's saving these artists from further suffering."

"That's what the evidence suggests. The careful positioning of the bodies, the peaceful expressions, the preservation of their dignity. But based on the weirdness of this case, I am completely open to exploring other options."

"Well…what if it's not about mercy at all?" Addison reached for the remnants of her burger, grimacing at the taste. "Think about what we learned from Oliver Reese. His buyer had no formal training in chemistry or medicine. He was asking basic questions about dosages and administration methods."

"So?"

"So, someone with medical training, someone who understood how HC-47 actually works, would know that the doses being used are lethal. But what if our killer doesn't understand that? What if he thinks he's preserving these people, not killing them? What if it’s more about respect and preservation that mercy?"

Javier turned in his seat to face her more directly. "You think he's trying to freeze their nervous systems specifically? Like cryogenic preservation for the parts of their bodies that are causing the problems?"

"Exactly. HC-47 was designed for controlled cooling to block nerve function. In proper medical applications, it temporarily interrupts nerve signals to provide pain relief or treat certain conditions. But someone without proper training might think that freezing the nervous system would stop the progression of neurological disorders."

She pulled up the autopsy reports on her laptop, pointing to specific sections. "Look at the ice crystal formations. They're concentrated around nervous tissue—the brain, spinal cord, peripheral nerves. If someone was trying to freeze just the nervous system to halt the progression of disease, this is exactly what the damage would look like."

"But at the doses he's using, it's killing them instead of preserving them."

"Which he probably doesn't realize. Think about the positioning of the bodies. They're arranged to look like they're sleeping, like they're at peace. Someone who thought he was putting them into a kind of suspended animation might pose them that way."

Javier grabbed a French fry and chewed thoughtfully. "So instead of looking for someone with medical or scientific training, we should be looking for someone with a personal connection to neurological disorders. Someone who's watched a loved one suffer through the kind of decline our victims were facing."

"Someone desperate enough to believe in a miracle cure, even if it's based on completely flawed understanding of the science." Addison opened a new document on her laptop and began typing notes. "Someone who's been researching cryogenic preservation and neurological disorders online, probably consuming a lot of pseudoscientific information about freezing techniques and brain preservation."

"It would explain why he chose HC-47 specifically even when he isn’t completely sure of what it does. If he was researching cryogenic compounds online, HC-47's description as a cooling agent for nerve tissue would sound exactly like what he was looking for. It’s also the new, sexy thing on the block."

"And it explains why he's been experimenting with different injection sites and dosages,” Addison added. “He's trying to perfect a technique he doesn't actually understand, based on theoretical knowledge he's gathered from unreliable sources."

The shift in reasoning was exciting in a strange, restrained way. Instead of hunting for a mercy killer with medical knowledge, they needed to find someone driven by desperation and false hope. Maybe someone who had watched a loved one deteriorate from a neurological condition and had become convinced that experimental cryogenic preservation was the answer. And if that was the case, everything from here on out would be more unpredictable. Addison would rather go after a madman rather than someone working from a place of loss and grief.

"This changes our entire approach to the case," she said. "We need to expand the investigation to look for suspects who are non-medical personnel who may have recently lost someone to a neurological disorder."

"That's going to be a long list," Javier said grimly. "Alzheimer's, Parkinson's, ALS, epilepsy, multiple sclerosis—neurological disorders affect millions of people. And in a city like Seattle, with a large elderly population and several major medical centers, the number of people who've lost family members to these conditions is going to be enormous."

"But we can narrow it down. We're looking for someone with enough money to pay forty thousand dollars in cash for stolen laboratory compounds. Someone who's been researching cryogenic preservation and neurological disorders obsessively. Someone who had access to information about Dr. Hayes's research participants."

Addison began creating a profile based on their new theory, speaking out loud to process it faster. "Probably a middle-aged man, well-dressed, nervous around criminals but determined enough to go through with buying stolen compounds. Probably has a technical background that gives him confidence in his ability to understand scientific concepts, but not actual medical training."

"It could be someone in a related field,” Javier suggested. “Engineering, maybe, or computer science. Someone comfortable with technical documentation but unfamiliar with biological systems."

"And someone who's been grieving,” Addison said. “The kind of obsessive research he'd need to do, the willingness to believe in experimental treatments—that suggests someone who's been desperate to find a solution to a problem that affects him personally."

Javier finished his burger and wiped his hands on a napkin. "So where do we start? Hospital records of recent deaths from neurological disorders? Obituaries?"

"All of that,” Addison agreed with a sigh. “Plus, we need to cross-reference with people who had any connection to Dr. Hayes's research. Someone who knew about her study participants and had access to their personal information." Addison saved her notes and closed the laptop. "We should also look at online forums and support groups for people dealing with neurological disorders. If our killer has been researching preservation techniques, he's probably been active in those communities."

"This is going to take time to investigate properly. Meanwhile, our killer is out there with enough HC-47 to continue his preservation experiments for weeks."

"Which is why we need to move fast. The eight people on Dr. Hayes's list who are still alive—they're all potential targets. Even with protection details assigned to them, they're not safe until we catch this guy. And I feel like Loomis will allow a few more agents to help with the research part of things."

Addison looked out the car window at the darkening Seattle skyline. Somewhere in this city was a killer who thought he was saving people, who believed he was preserving artists at their peak before neurological disease could steal their abilities. The twisted logic of it made her stomach turn. He was murdering people in the name of preservation, destroying lives while believing he was protecting them. She couldn’t help but wonder if someone with that skewed of a mind even realized they were killing these people.

"The worst part is that he probably thinks he's being compassionate," she said. "In his mind, he's offering these artists a better death than the slow decline they were facing. He's preserving their dignity and their artistic legacy."

"Except he's actually just murdering them based on his misunderstanding of basic science."

"And he's going to keep doing it until we stop him.”

Javier started the car, and they pulled out of the restaurant parking lot heading back toward the field office. The evening traffic was light, but Addison felt the weight of urgency pressing down on her chest. They had a clearer picture of their killer now, but it had also made things murkier and busier.

"You know what bothers me most about this new theory?" she said as they drove through downtown Seattle.

"What's that?"

"If we're right, then our killer isn't a monster. He's just someone who loves another person so much that he's willing to commit murder to save them from suffering. Someone who's been driven to desperate measures by grief and false hope."

"Does that make it better or worse?"

Addison considered the question as they passed beneath the streetlights, their rhythmic glow creating patterns across the car's interior. "I think it makes it worse. At least with a monster, you can understand the evil. But this? This is someone whose motivations come from love and desperation. Someone who's probably a decent person who's been pushed beyond rational thought by watching someone he cares about deteriorate."

"And that makes him more dangerous, not less,” Javier commented. “Because he genuinely believes he's doing the right thing."

The comment seemed or send a chill through the car, and Addison did not feel herself released from its grip until they were once again back at the field office.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Cascade Motor Inn looked even more dismal in the darkness than it probably did during the day. Neon signs from nearby businesses cast garish red and blue shadows across the cracked asphalt of the parking lot, and the smell of stale beer and sweat hung heavy in the humid evening air. He sat in his sedan for several minutes, watching the comings and goings around the motel with the careful attention of someone who understood that patience was often the difference between success and catastrophe.

The neighborhood surrounding the motel was the kind of place where people minded their own business out of necessity rather than courtesy. To his left, a liquor store with barred windows stayed open late to serve customers who paid in crumpled bills and avoided eye contact. Across the street, a very basic and shady building proclaimed it its windows: CHECKS CASHED! The sound of traffic from the nearby highway created a constant background drone that would mask conversations and muffle any sounds that might attract unwanted attention.

In other words, it was perfect for the kind of business he needed to conduct.

He'd been careful about his previous transaction with Oliver Reese, meeting in a parking lot behind a restaurant where security cameras were minimal and foot traffic was nonexistent. But the forty thousand dollars he'd paid for the initial supply of HC-47 had seemed like a reasonable investment at the time. The compound would allow him to preserve multiple subjects, perfecting his technique while ensuring that their artistic gifts would never be lost to the ravages of neurological disease.

But the learning curve had been steeper than anticipated. Each preservation attempt had taught him something new about dosage, injection sites, and timing. David Montgomery's preservation had been more successful than Margaret Hawthorn's, and Sophia Ruiz had required adjustments that had consumed more of the compound than he'd originally calculated. The experimental nature of his work meant that some waste was inevitable, but he was running lower on HC-47 than he'd hoped.

He'd feared this would be the case. After all, he’d never even touched the stuff until the night he’d purchased it from Reese.

He needed more. Enough to complete his work with the remaining subjects on his list, plus a safety margin for the inevitable trial and error that came with perfecting any new technique. Reese had mentioned during their original transaction that additional quantities might be available if the initial purchase proved successful. Reese had seemed eager to maintain a business relationship, especially given the substantial payment he'd received. He’d gone so far as to tell him where he had been staying recently—this run-down motel. He hoped Reese was still here. And given the state the man had been in when they’d had their first transaction, he thought the odds were good.

The motel's main office sat at the center of the U-shaped building, its windows glowing with fluorescent light that made the interior look stark and uninviting. A sign in the window advertised weekly rates and cable television, but the promises felt hollow given the obvious decay of the property. The parking lot was populated with older vehicles in various states of disrepair, and several of the motel room doors showed signs of forced entry or amateur repairs.

He locked his car and approached the office, noting the security camera mounted above the entrance. The lens was dirty and the housing was cracked, suggesting that the surveillance system was more for show than actual monitoring. A bell chimed when he opened the door, announcing his presence to the heavyset man behind bulletproof glass who looked up from a small television with obvious irritation.

"Can I help you?" the clerk asked, his voice carrying the weary resignation of someone who'd dealt with too many late-night visitors with questionable intentions.

"I'm looking for a guest of yours. Oliver Reese. Can you tell me what room he’s staying in?"

The clerk's expression shifted from bored indifference to something approaching amusement. He leaned back in his chair and let out a harsh laugh that contained no actual humor.

"He’s not in a room anymore," the clerk said, shaking his head. "That guy was arrested earlier today. Big car chase with the FBI and everything! Made a hell of a mess when he tried to run. Jumped right off the second-floor walkway like some kind of action movie star, then led the feds on a chase through half the city before he crashed his piece-of-shit Honda into some fruit stands."

The tale hit him like a physical blow. Oliver Reese had been arrested by the FBI. Not local police investigating a simple burglary, but federal agents who understood the significance of what had been stolen from Horizon Cryonics… because if the feds were after him, surely it had something to do with his thievery. The careful distance he'd maintained from the actual theft, the anonymous transaction in a dark parking lot, the use of cash to avoid any paper trail—all of it had been designed to protect him if Reese was ever caught.

But if Reese was talking to federal investigators, if he was providing descriptions of their transaction and details about the HC-47 purchase, then the investigation was moving closer to him with every passing hour.

"The FBI?" he managed to ask, hoping his voice sounded casual rather than panicked.

"Yeah, they were asking about him by name. Showed up here with badges and everything. Poor bastard tried to run when he saw them coming, but you can't outrun the feds in a twenty-year-old Honda with a blown gasket."

The clerk seemed to be enjoying the story, probably the most excitement the motel had seen in months. But each detail felt like another nail in the coffin of his carefully planned preservation project.

"Did they say what they wanted him for?" he asked, still trying to sound like nothing more than a curious acquaintance.

"Didn't say specifically. And I know better than to ask. But that guy has been acting weird since he moved in here anyway—nervous, jumpy, always looking over his shoulder like he was expecting trouble."

He nodded, but his mind was racing. If the FBI knew about the compound, they probably also knew about the murders. They may have already connected the deaths of Montgomery, Hawthorn, and Ruiz to the stolen cooling agent. His preservation work had been proceeding carefully and methodically, allowing time between subjects to refine his technique and avoid detection. But if the federal investigation was closing in, if Reese was providing information about their transaction, then careful and methodical was no longer an option.

He needed to accelerate his timeline.

"Thanks for the information," he said, backing toward the door. "I'll try to reach him another way."

The clerk had already returned his attention to the television, dismissing the visitor with a wave of his hand. The late-night news was starting, and the lead story appeared to be about traffic conditions on the interstate highway system.

Back in his car, he sat in the darkness of the parking lot and tried to calculate how much time he had before the investigation reached him. Reese could provide a general description but probably couldn't identify him specifically. The transaction had taken place in darkness, and he'd been careful not to reveal any personal information. But federal investigators were skilled at building cases from minimal evidence, at following paper trails and connecting seemingly unrelated pieces of information.

He had enough HC-47 for several more preservation attempts, but not the extensive supply he'd hoped to purchase. Each subject would require careful planning and precise execution, with no room for the kind of experimental adjustments that had characterized his earlier work. The learning phase was over; now he needed to apply everything he'd discovered about dosage and technique to complete his mission before the authorities could interfere.

The remaining subjects on Dr. Hayes's list represented years of artistic achievement that would be lost forever if their neurological conditions were allowed to progress. Each day of delay meant another day of deterioration, another step closer to the total loss of abilities that had defined their entire lives.

He started the car and pulled out of the motel parking lot, leaving behind the neon-stained darkness and the lingering smell of urban decay. The preservation work would continue, but it would have to proceed much faster than originally planned. He would have to use what compound he had remaining and work with greater urgency than before.

Time was running out, but there was still enough to save the artists who remained on his list. He just had to move quickly and efficiently, completing the preservation process before the FBI could close in and destroy everything he'd worked to accomplish.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Addison sat surrounded by printouts, her laptop opens to multiple databases, and several empty coffee cups that testified to the long hours she'd been working. The list of potential suspects seemed to grow longer with each search parameter she added, and the overwhelming scope of the investigation was beginning to weigh on her.

She'd been cross-referencing obituaries from the past two years with records of neurological disorders, looking for family members who might fit their killer's profile. The results were staggering. Alzheimer's disease alone had claimed hundreds of lives in the Seattle area, each death leaving behind grieving family members who might have been driven to desperate measures by watching their loved ones deteriorate.

"This is impossible," she muttered, staring at the screen. "We need a better way to narrow this down."

Javier looked up from his own stack of files on the other side of her desk. He'd been working on financial records, trying to identify people who had made large cash withdrawals around the time of Reese's transaction with their unknown buyer. And all the while, minutes turned to hours as night crept in and swallowed everything up outside.

"Any luck with the database searches?" he asked.

"Too much luck. I've got over three hundred potential suspects just from the past eighteen months. Middle-aged men who lost spouses or parents to neurological conditions, people with enough money to afford a forty-thousand-dollar purchase, residents of the Seattle area who might have had access to information about Dr. Hayes's research." She rubbed her eyes, feeling the strain of staring at screens for too many hours. "We need a different approach. This seemed like a good idea, but my God… there’s so much."

However, an idea began to form as she spoke. Dr. Hayes had been studying artists with neurological conditions for years, building a network of contacts and referrals that extended throughout the Seattle arts community. If someone had been researching preservation techniques for neurological disorders—if they'd been looking for experimental treatments or alternative approaches—they might have encountered Dr. Hayes's work or been referred to her by other medical professionals. In other words, Dr. Hayes may be able to narrow this list down substantially.

Addison picked up her phone and dialed Dr. Hayes's number. It was quite late, her phone reading 9:22, but this was urgent enough to justify the late call. Hayes answered on the second ring, apparently not all that bothered by the late hour.

“Hello?”

"Dr. Hayes, this is Agent Shine again. I'm sorry to call so late, but we need your help with something. Do you have a few minutes to spare?"

"Of course, Agent Shine. What can I do for you?"

"We’re working with a new theory about our killer's motivations. We think he's not trying to murder these people out of mercy, but actually attempting to preserve them by freezing their nervous systems to halt the progression of their conditions."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "That's... that's actually a fascinating hypothesis from a psychological standpoint."

“Yes, but this killer seems to lack the medical knowledge to realize he's actually killing them. And that’s why we’re currently focusing on people who might have recently lost someone to a neurological disorder. Someone desperate enough to believe in experimental preservation techniques. The problem is, we're looking at hundreds of possible candidates. We need a way to narrow the field."

"Okay, and. how can I help with that?"

"Your research network. Over the years, you've probably been contacted by family members of people with neurological conditions. People looking for experimental treatments, alternative therapies, anything that might help their loved ones. Would that be correct?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“So, I'm wondering if you keep records of those contacts, especially people who seemed particularly desperate or fixated on preservation techniques."

Dr. Hayes was quiet for a moment, and Addison could hear papers rustling in the background. "Actually, yes. I do keep records of outside inquiries. As a researcher, I'm often contacted by family members who've heard about my work and are looking for hope. Most of the contacts are routine, but some stand out because of their intensity or their focus on very specific aspects of neurological preservation. I hold on to their contact information should I need to work with that sort of situation in the future.

"Can you access those records now?"

"Give me a few minutes to pull up the files. I organize them by date and type of inquiry." More rustling sounds came through the phone.

Addison put the call on speaker so Javier could participate in the conversation. "Dr. Hayes, we also have a physical description of our suspect,” he said. “We’re likely looking at a middle-aged man, well-dressed, nervous around criminal activities but determined enough to purchase stolen compounds. Probably has some technical background but no formal medical training."

"That helps narrow things down. Most of the family members who contact me are exactly that—desperate people with just enough knowledge to be dangerous." Dr. Hayes paused, apparently reading through files. "And… yes, here's something interesting. About eight months ago, I received several calls from a man asking very specific questions about cognitive preservation in dementia patients. He wanted to know about experimental treatments that might halt or reverse memory loss."

"What made those calls stand out above any others?" Addison asked.

"The level of detail in his questions, mostly. Most family members ask general questions about treatments or prognosis. This man was asking about specific preservation techniques, about whether it was possible to freeze brain tissue to prevent further deterioration. He seemed to have done extensive research on cryogenic preservation. Mostly from Google and maybe some AI prompts. But he had clearly done his research.”

Javier leaned closer to the phone. "Did he give you his name?"

"Gregory Elder. He mentioned that his wife was in the advanced stages of dementia and that he was looking for any experimental treatments that might help her. When I explained that my research was observational rather than treatment-focused, he became very agitated."

Addison felt her pulse quicken. "Agitated how?"

"He accused me of withholding information that could save his wife. He said that researchers like me were sitting on breakthrough treatments while people suffered needlessly just because there was no real money to be made in it. The conversation became quite heated before he hung up."

"Did he contact you again?"

"Several times over the next few weeks. Each call was more desperate than the last and he’d pretend that he hadn’t gotten angry on the previous calls. He kept asking about preservation techniques, about whether it was possible to maintain brain function through controlled cooling. Eventually, I had to ask him to stop calling because his requests were becoming inappropriate."

Addison was already pulling up database searches for Gregory Elder on her laptop, her fingers flying across the keyboard. "Dr. Hayes, do you remember anything else about these conversations? Any details that might help us locate him?"

"He mentioned that he was an art restorer—which he took great pride in because his wife was an artist. He said that he understood the principles of preservation from his professional work. He seemed to think that preserving human tissue would be similar to preserving paintings or sculptures."

The search results began populating on Addison's screen just as she felt another link click: Elder had emotional connection to art and the art world. And then, there he was on the screen from the database. Gregory Elder, age forty-eight, a clean criminal record. A quick, basic web search revealed that he was the owner of Elder Art Restoration Services. His business specialized in conserving and restoring valuable artworks for museums and private collectors. The profile included a professional headshot that showed a man with graying brown hair and an expensive-looking suit.

"Got him," she said, scrolling through the information. "Gregory Elder, art restorer, matches our physical description. And look at this—his wife, Patricia Elder, died six months ago from complications related to Alzheimer's disease."

“Yes,” Dr. Hayes said. “He was absolutely distraught over it.”

Javier pointed to another section of the search results from the database. "Financial records show large cash withdrawals from his business accounts around the time Reese made his sale. Forty-five thousand dollars withdrawn over a three-day period, two weeks ago."

"That's our timeline," Addison confirmed. “And it’s only five more than what Reese was paid.” She then redirected her focus and said, "Dr. Hayes, you said Elder seemed to understand preservation principles from his art restoration work?"

"Yes, he kept drawing parallels between preserving paintings and preserving human tissue. He seemed convinced that the same techniques that prevent deterioration in artworks could be applied to medical conditions."

The pieces were falling into place with frightening clarity. Gregory Elder had the motivation—a wife lost to dementia. He had the means—enough money to purchase stolen compounds and the technical background to believe he could use them effectively. And he had the obsession with preservation that would drive him to experimental measures.

"There's just one problem," Dr. Hayes said. "I've never had any professional contact with Gregory Elder or his wife. If he's your killer, he has no connection to my research or my participants like the first three."

Addison frowned, staring at the search results. "Then how is he identifying his victims? All three of our murder victims were participants in your study."

"I don't know. My research files are confidential, and promise you I've never shared participant information with outside parties."

"Could he have gained access to your files somehow? Hacked into your database or stolen physical records?"

"It's possible, but unlikely. My files are password-protected and stored on secure university servers. Physical access would require breaking into my office, and I would have noticed if files were missing."

Javier leaned back in his chair, thinking. "What if he's not getting the information from Dr. Hayes directly? What if he's identifying victims through some other connection to the arts community?"

"That's possible," Addison said. "All three victims were active in the local arts scene despite their conditions. Maybe Elder is using his professional connections to identify artists who are struggling with neurological disorders."

She pulled up Elder's business website, scanning through client testimonials and project descriptions. His work involved restoring paintings and sculptures for galleries, museums, and private collectors throughout the Pacific Northwest, and with a few mentions in New York as well. The website emphasized his expertise in preservation techniques and his commitment to maintaining the integrity of artistic works.

"Look at this," she said, pointing to a section of the website. "Elder Restoration Services specializes in works by local artists. He's been involved in preserving the legacies of Seattle-area artists for over twenty years."

"Which would give him connections throughout the local arts community," Javier observed. "He might hear about artists who are dealing with health problems, who are considering retirement or reducing their activity due to medical conditions."

Addison checked the time on her computer screen. It was 10:05 PM, later than ideal for making contact with a potential suspect. But if Gregory Elder was their killer, if he was using stolen HC-47 to murder artists under the delusion that he was preserving them, then every hour of delay put more lives at risk.

"We need to pay Elder a visit," she said, reaching for her jacket. "Tonight." And then, realizing that they had simply started thinking out loud with Dr. Hayes still on the line, she picked up her phone and said, “Thanks so much, Dr. Hayes. This was incredibly helpful.”

“I’m glad! Don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything else!”

Addison ended the call and started for the door, but noticed that Javier was hesitating. He didn’t seem too certain about something.

"It's past ten," he pointed out. "If he's not involved, showing up at his house this late could seem like harassment."

"And if he is involved, waiting until morning could give him time to select his next victim." Addison was already gathering the files they'd need. "Besides, if he's innocent, I’d imagine he’d want to help us catch whoever is killing artists in his community."

“Touché,” Javier said, now also getting to his feet.

As they prepared to leave the field office, the only question remaining was whether they would find Elder at home, or if he was already out in the city, stalking his next victim.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Gregory Elder's house sat in a quiet middle-class suburb, the kind of neighborhood where well-maintained lawns were separated by mature oak trees and porch lights created pools of warm illumination on the grass. The two-story colonial was painted a muted sage green with white trim, its front yard featuring carefully tended flower beds that spoke to someone who took pride in their home's appearance. A curved driveway led to a two-car garage, and decorative shutters framed windows that glowed softly from interior lighting.

At 10:25 PM, most of the houses on the street showed signs of their occupants settling in for the evening. Television screens flickered behind curtained windows, and the occasional dog walker moved along the sidewalks with their pets. It was the kind of suburban tranquility that felt almost surreal given the urgency of their investigation.

Addison and Javier sat in their sedan across the street from Elder's house, watching for any signs of movement inside. They'd been there for twenty minutes, and it was becoming clear that either Elder wasn't home or he was deliberately avoiding contact with visitors.

"No car in the driveway," Javier observed. "And I haven't seen any movement behind those windows."

"Could be in the garage, but you're right—the place feels empty."

“One way to find out.”

They quietly got out of the car and approached the house. Addison knocked, the sound like little bombs in the quiet of the neighborhood. They listened and waited, but there was only silence inside. Addison pressed her ear to the door but she heard nothing. She looked to Javier and shook her head.

“He’s not home.”

Addison pulled out her phone as they made their way back to the car. She scrolled through the financial records they'd compiled on Elder. The large cash withdrawals were suspicious, but they also represented a significant amount of money being moved around. People didn't usually carry that kind of cash unless they had specific plans for it.

"Based on these financial movements, it might be worth trying to track him," she said. "If he's moving this kind of money around, he's probably using credit cards or his phone for logistics. We might be able to get a location."

Javier nodded and pulled out his own phone. "I'll call in the trace request on his phone."

The FBI's ability to track individuals through their electronic devices was both sophisticated and carefully regulated. For active investigations involving suspected felons, the bureau could request real-time location data from cell phone carriers and credit card companies. The process required proper authorization and clear justification, but it could provide results within ten to fifteen minutes when all the legal requirements were met. And in a case like this, they both knew the request would be expedited.

Javier called the field office and spoke with the duty supervisor, explaining their need for immediate location data on Gregory Elder. The supervisor would coordinate with the bureau's technical services division, who would contact Elder's cell phone carrier and request GPS data from his device. If Elder was using his phone or making any electronic transactions, they would be able to pinpoint his location within a few city blocks. It was a process Addison knew well and, though she knew it sounded boring to the layman, she found it fascinating. It was a hands-off, back and forth sort of operation, but it was evidence that when things came down to the wire, the government could actually get things done.

"They're on it," Javier said, ending the call. "Should have something within fifteen minutes, assuming his phone is turned on and he's not using cash for everything."

They settled back in their seats to wait, the quiet suburb providing a stark contrast to the intensity of their investigation. A quiet night where the neighborhood around them seemed deathly silent… it was unnerving in a way that sank deep into Addison.

"You know," Javier said, breaking the comfortable silence between them, "this case has made me think about a lot of things."

"Like what?"

"Like how much we invest in our work, how much of ourselves we pour into these investigations. Sometimes I wonder if we're so focused on catching killers that we forget to actually live our own lives."

“It’s a good thing we have each other then, huh?” She asked it as something of a joke, but when it was fully spoken, they both seemed to understand that there was a deep meaning there as well.

"You joke, but you’re absolutely right,” he said. “Look at our victims—Montgomery, Hawthorn, Ruiz. They were all artists who had defined their entire identities around their abilities. When those abilities started failing, they couldn't imagine who they would be without them. I think we're lucky to have found work that matters to us, that feels like more than just a job and that we can sort of share together. But I also think we need to be careful not to let it consume everything else."

"Everything else like what?"

"Like this. Like what we have together." He turned to face her, his expression earnest. "Addison, I care about you more than I've cared about anyone in a very long time. Not just as a partner, not just as someone I work with, but as someone I want to share my life with."

Addison felt a rush of emotion pass through her but she was also very confused, as Javier wasn’t usually the sort to gush about his feelings. She wondered if there was something about the odd nature of this case that had hit a nerve, that had opened his eyes to the very real threat of them getting injured or dying each and every time they were in the field.

 They'd been dancing around their feelings for months, acknowledging their relationship but rarely discussing its deeper implications. "Javi... "

"I'm not asking for declarations or promises," he said quickly. "I just want you to know that this—what we have—it's important to me. More important than solving cases or advancing careers or any of the other things that usually drive me. As… as messed up as that might sound.”

"It's important to me too," she said quietly. "Sometimes I think about how different my life has become since we started working together. Not just the professional stuff, but everything else. Coming home to someone who understands what I do, having someone to share the weight of these investigations with."

"The respect I have for you," Javier continued, "it goes beyond your skills as an agent, though those are considerable. I respect your dedication, your intelligence, the way you care about victims even when you're trying to maintain professional distance. I respect the way you never give up, even when cases seem impossible."

"And I respect the way you balance me out," Addison replied. "The way you keep me grounded when I start spiraling into theories and connections. The way you trust my instincts even when they lead us down unusual paths. The way you put up with my dark sense of humor and my nerdiness."

They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, the weight of their conversation settling around them. It wasn't a declaration of love, but it was close—an acknowledgment of how much they meant to each other and how much they valued what they'd built together.

Javier's phone rang, interrupting the moment. He answered with his usual professional tone, but Addison could see the slight smile on his face as he transitioned back to work-mode.

"Agent Esposito here." He listened for several minutes, occasionally making notes on a small pad. "Got it. We're heading there now."

He ended the call and turned to Addison. "They've got Elder's location. He's at an empty storefront downtown. Been there for about two hours, and his phone shows minimal movement within the building."

"An empty storefront? That's unusual."

"Could be a meeting location. Maybe he's conducting business there, staying away from his home to avoid being tracked. Remember, Reese’s buyer requested a late-night meeting in a very remote location.”

She nodded as he started the car and pulled out into the night. They drove through the quiet suburban streets toward downtown Seattle, leaving behind the peaceful neighborhood for the more industrial landscape of the city center. As they exited the tranquil neighborhoods, Javier sped up. The transition felt symbolic—moving from the normal world of middle-class domesticity to the darker reality of their investigation.

They arrived just fifteen minutes later Javier guiding the car down one-way streets and sleepy downtown intersections. The empty storefront where Elder’s phone had been pinged was located on a side street in the arts district. It was surrounded by small galleries, studios, and creative spaces that catered to Seattle's vibrant artistic community. The building was narrow and deep, with large windows that had been covered with brown paper from the inside. A small sign indicated that the space was available for lease, but there were obvious signs of recent activity.

They parked across the street from the rear of the building. They spied a pane van parked almost directly by a large back door. They sat adjacent to the building for several minutes, silent and waiting. Light leaked around the edges of the covered windows, and they could see movement inside through gaps in the paper. As they watched, a figure emerged from a back entrance—a man matching Elder's general description, carrying what appeared to be a cardboard box.

"That's him," Addison said, studying the figure through binoculars. "Matches the photo from his business website."

A few minutes later, another man appeared at the back entrance, helping Elder carry additional boxes from the back of the van and into the building. The second man was younger and appeared to be dressed more casually. It was hard to tell for sure due to the angle and the poor light, but Addison thought the interaction between them seemed businesslike rather than social.

"Could be another supplier," Javier observed. "Maybe Elder is expanding his operation, bringing in more stolen compounds or equipment. God, can you imagine if Reese isn’t his own supplier? And if he’s dabbling in more compounds than we even know about?"

It was a terrifying thought, and it caused Addison to reach for her door handle. "We need to move," she said. "If they're conducting business in there, we might catch them with evidence."

They waited until both men had entered the building again before getting out of the car. They crossed the street and approached the building carefully, noting the layout and potential escape routes. The back entrance where they'd seen Elder appeared to be the primary access point, with the front of the building secured by the property management company.

They positioned themselves on either side of the back entrance, weapons drawn. The door was slightly ajar, and they could hear the men's muffled voice coming from inside the building. After exchanging silent signals, Javier pushed through the door, and they entered the building.

"FBI! Nobody moves!"

The scene inside the storefront was not what they had expected. Instead of a criminal operation or laboratory setup, they found themselves in what appeared to be an art gallery in the early stages of development. The walls were lined with paintings and sculptures, carefully arranged and professionally lit. Javier's booming voice echoed through the building like thunder, and all else was library-quiet.

Elder and the other man stood frozen near a display case, both looking shocked and confused rather than guilty.

"What the hell?" Elder said, his hands raised in compliance with their shouted commands. "What's going on? Why are you pointing guns at us?"

Addison scanned the room, taking in the carefully curated artwork and professional display setup. Nothing about the scene suggested criminal activity. The paintings appeared to be originals, professionally framed and tastefully arranged. The sculptures were displayed on pedestals with museum-quality lighting. Slowly, she holstered her Glock. Javier kept his out, but lowered it. They both started to understand that they may have just made a tremendous mistake.

"Gregory Elder?" she asked, keeping her weapon trained on him.

"Yes, that's me.” He kept his eyes on Javier’s gun and took a small step back. “But I don't understand what this is about. We're just setting up a fucking gallery. What’s with the raid?"

Javier moved closer to examine the artwork while maintaining visual contact with both men. "What kind of gallery?"

"A memorial gallery for my late wife's work," Elder said, his voice carrying a note of confusion and grief. And some anger, Addison noticed. "Patricia was an artist. She died six months ago from Alzheimer's, and I wanted to create a space to display her paintings and sculptures. To preserve her artistic legacy. I don’t… Jesus, I don’t understand why the FBI would be interested in that!"

Addison felt her stomach drop as she realized their mistake. The large financial movements, the empty storefront, the secretive activity—it all had an innocent explanation. Elder wasn't buying stolen compounds or setting up a criminal operation. He was creating a memorial for his deceased wife.

"The money movements we tracked," she said, lowering her weapon slightly. "Where did that come from?"

“Money? What are you talking about?”

“We tracked forty-five thousand dollars moved around from—”

“That was from donors who wanted to help me get this gallery and exhibit set up!” He was almost screaming now, his anger coming through more clearly. “Apparently you didn’t track it well enough!”

"They were donations from museums and private collectors who knew Patricia's work," the other man said. He appeared to be in his thirties, dressed casually in a T-shirt and shorts. "I'm Jim Webber, the gallery coordinator. Mr. Elder hired me to help establish this space as a permanent memorial."

Elder's expression grew more confused and hurt, the anger suddenly subsiding like a wave being pulled back out to sea. "I don't understand why the FBI is interested in a memorial gallery. Patricia's work was legitimate, all the donations have been properly documented." He sighed and hung his head, perhaps understanding that cooperation was going to be the best approach here. “I have all of the paperwork if you need to see it.”

Javier finally holstered his weapon. At the same time, Addison felt the weight of their mistake falling on her like a piano from overhead. They'd followed what seemed like a promising lead, connected financial evidence to a suspicious timeline, and ended up interrupting a grieving widower's attempt to honor his wife's memory.

"Mr. Elder, we're investigating a series of murders involving artists with neurological conditions,” she explained. “Your persistent contact with Dr. Hayes about preservation techniques, combined with your financial activity, made you a person of interest in our investigation. I assure you, this was not random."

"Murders?" Elder's face went pale. "What murders? And what does Dr. Hayes have to do with anything?"

"You contacted her several months ago asking about cognitive preservation in dementia patients, correct?"

"Yes, I was desperate. Patricia was deteriorating so rapidly, and I was looking for any experimental treatments that might help her. When Dr. Hayes couldn't provide medical treatment, I focused on preserving her artistic legacy instead." He gestured around the gallery space. "This is how I chose to preserve what Patricia created, not through some impossible medical procedure. I… I will admit, though, that I probably spoke far too harshly to Dr. Hayes a few times."

Addison looked around the memorial gallery, taking in the beautiful artwork. It had clearly been set up with the same love and care that had gone into its creation. This wasn't the lair of a killer—it was a shrine to a lost love. It was a grieving husband's attempt to ensure that his wife's artistic contributions wouldn't be forgotten.

"Mr. Elder, I sincerely apologize for the intrusion. But given the nature of this case, we had to follow every lead in our investigation."

"I understand," Elder said, though his voice still carried hurt and confusion.

“It won’t be necessary right now, but if things don’t change in the coming days, we may have to take a look at the paperwork concerning that money.”

"Sure," he said, the irritating creeping back in. "Just let me know if it comes to that. I hope you catch whoever is hurting people. Patricia always believed that art was meant to preserve the best of human experience. She would be horrified to know that someone was using it to justify murder."

They said a quick goodbye and left the gallery. Addison felt like a dog that had just been scolded for making a stupid mistake. She didn’t think she’d ever been so embarrassed in all of her life. As they left the memorial gallery, Addison felt the familiar frustration of a promising lead that had evaporated into nothing. Gregory Elder had seemed like the perfect suspect—the right motivation, the right timeline, the right financial capability. But he was exactly what he appeared to be: a grieving widower trying to honor his wife's memory through legitimate means.

They were back at square one. And Addison felt they were no closer to catching their killer than they had been at the start of the day.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The field office at 3:55 in the morning felt like a different world entirely. Defeated and feeling that they had come to a dead end, the silence and weird sterile nature of the place made Addison feel like she was on the moon. She once again found herself sitting at her desk, dwarfed by enormous piles of reports and documents that she was beginning to doubt had the answers to their case. She was surrounded by the detritus of a long investigation—empty coffee cups, scattered files, printouts covered with her handwritten notes, and a laptop whose screen had become her primary window into a case that seemed determined to resist solution.

She was on her second cup of coffee since returning to the field office from their wretched encounter with Gregory Elder. She sipped from it, staring at the mess on her desk and trying to figure out what they were missing… how they had gone wrong so many different ways. Javier had gone down to Records and Research an hour ago, diving into the FBI's database to look for any other cases where people had been murdered by being frozen to death. It was a long shot—their killer's method was so unusual that it would probably be unique in the criminal record—but they needed to explore every possibility. If someone else had attempted similar murders in other jurisdictions, the patterns might provide clues about their current case.

Addison started to slowly spread the case files across her desk once again, taking off the stacks of extra details and going back to the core of what they knew. As much as it pained her, she wondered if it might benefit them to approach the evidence from a completely different angle. She'd been focusing on the medical aspects of the murders, the stolen compound, the technical expertise required to use HC-47 as a weapon. But what if she was overthinking the complexity of the connection between victims?

What did they know for sure about all of the victims? For starters, all three victims had been artists dealing with neurological conditions. All three had been participants in Dr. Hayes's research study. But there had to be something else, some other point of intersection that had brought them to the killer's attention. Dr. Hayes's research files were confidential and carefully protected—it seemed unlikely that someone without inside access could have identified her participants.

She pulled up the brief notes from the interview with Dr. Berryhill at Sunset Gardens, scrolling through the conversation about Sophia Ruiz's final weeks. Dr. Berryhill had mentioned that despite her epilepsy, Sophia had tried to remain an active member of the dance community. She'd taught occasional classes when her health permitted, and she'd attended events and performances whenever possible.

That sparked an idea that made Addison sit up straighter in her chair. What if the victims hadn't been identified through medical records or research files? What if they'd been identified through their continued participation in the arts community? It was a point she and Javier had briefly touched on before but had not seen the validity in pursuing it. But… if all three had been trying to maintain their artistic connections despite their declining health—Montgomery through teaching, Hawthorn through community classes, Ruiz through dance events—there might be something there.

She opened a new browser window and, after a bit of thought, began searching for arts events in the Seattle area. She didn't look for up and coming events, though. Rather, she focused on events that had taken place over the past year, looking for any gatherings that might have brought together artists dealing with health challenges. The search results were extensive—Seattle's arts community was vibrant and active, with dozens of events, fundraisers, and showcases happening every month. It was, in all honestly, one of the things she had always loved about this city.

After a few minutes of fruitless searching, she refined her search to focus on events specifically related to neurological disorders or health challenges facing artists. That slimmed the list down quite a bit, and within just a few minutes of working with these parameters, she felt that familiar stirring of coming close to paydirt.

One listing in particular caught her eye. It was an event that had garnered headlines everywhere, including a few snippets on local television stations and radio broadcasts. Three months ago, there had been an exclusive fundraising gala called "Art, Legacy, and Hope: A Celebration of Artistic Courage." The event had been designed to raise awareness and funds for neurological disorders, specifically focusing on how these conditions affected creative professionals. The guest list had included artists, patrons, medical professionals, and philanthropists from throughout the Pacific Northwest. It had been set up like an auction, and there had been a lot of local excitement about it.

Addison clicked through to the event's archived website and read through the program details. The evening had featured performances, art sales, and presentations about supporting artists facing health challenges. And there, prominently listed among the featured performers, was David Montgomery.

According to the program, Montgomery had given a special piano performance during the gala's main dinner. He’d played pieces that he'd selected to represent "the enduring power of music in the face of personal adversity." The description noted that his performance was particularly meaningful given his own recent health challenges, though it didn't specify the nature of his condition.

But that wasn't all. As Addison continued reading through the event details, she found further references to the art auction that had been part of the fundraising effort. Local artists had donated pieces to be sold during the gala, with proceeds going to research and support organizations for neurological disorders.

She clicked through to the auction catalog, and found even more gold. Margaret Hawthorn had contributed several pottery pieces to the auction. The catalog included photographs of her work along with a brief biographical note that mentioned her distinguished career as a sculptor and her ongoing commitment to supporting fellow artists facing health challenges.

Addison made herself remain calm as she sorted through these new revelations. Two of their three victims had been at the same event three months ago. Addison searched through the gala materials for any mention of Sophia Ruiz but found nothing conclusive. However, the event had been specifically focused on supporting artists with neurological conditions—exactly the demographic that Ruiz represented. So even if she hadn’t been one of the special guests, there was a good chance she had been in attendance.

She thought about how she might be able to find out who had been at this gala. Maybe a guest list or even a sign-in book. But who had organized the gala? Who had access to the guest list and participant information? She again checked the event site and looked at the fine print at the bottom of the home page. The event's website credited the organization to the Westing Foundation, a philanthropic organization focused on supporting arts and medical research in the Pacific Northwest. Addison clicked through to the foundation's main website, which featured an elegant design and professional photography showcasing various charitable initiatives.

The foundation had been established by Jacob Westing, a wealthy philanthropist and patron of the arts who had been actively involved in Seattle's cultural community for over thirty years. But as Addison read through the foundation's history on the About Us page, she discovered something else that put even more solid ground under this approach.

Jacob Westing had died the previous year from complications related to Alzheimer's disease.

The gala had been organized as a memorial of sorts to Westing, honoring his commitment to supporting artists while raising awareness about the neurological condition that had ultimately claimed his life. The entire evening had been conceived and executed by his son, Alexander Westing. Alexander, it seemed, had inherited control of the family foundation upon his father's death.

Addison's continued her search, her posture rigid and tight as she looked for more information about Jacob Westing. If she could find further connection to the victims, she could very well be on to something.

What she found exceeded even her most optimistic expectations.

Jacob Westing had been a major patron of the arts throughout his career, providing financial support to dozens of artists and cultural institutions. His foundation's records showed contributions to David Montgomery's early career development, grants that had helped support his transition from promising student to professional performer. Westing had also provided funding for Margaret Hawthorn's first major sculpture exhibition, the show that had launched her career as a recognized artist.

The connections didn't stop there. Digging deeper into the foundation's grant records, Addison found evidence that Westing had supported Sophia Ruiz during her early years with Pacific Northwest Ballet, providing scholarship funds that had allowed her to complete her training and join the company as a professional dancer.

All three victims had been beneficiaries of Jacob Westing's philanthropy at crucial points in their careers. At least two of them had attended a memorial gala in his honor, an event organized by his son Alexander to continue his father's work.

Addison clicked through to the foundation's current leadership page, where she found a professional photograph of Alexander Westing. He was a man in his late forties or early fifties, with graying brown hair and an expensive-looking suit. The resemblance to Oliver Reese's description of his buyer was unmistakable—middle-aged, well-dressed, the kind of person who would seem nervous around criminal activities but could be determined enough to go through with purchasing stolen compounds. Or anything else he thought might benefit him.

Further searching brought her to a YouTube video from the memorial gala, a recording of Alexander Westing's keynote speech about continuing his father's philanthropic legacy. The video showed him standing at a podium, speaking passionately about the importance of supporting artists facing health challenges. Behind him on the stage, David Montgomery sat at a grand piano, waiting for his performance cue.

Addison watched the speech with growing certainty that she was looking at their killer. Alexander Westing spoke about the devastating effects of neurological disorders on creative professionals, about the need to find new ways to preserve artistic legacies, about his commitment to funding innovative research that might prevent the loss of irreplaceable talent. The camera slowly panned around the room and then yet another piece of the puzzle locked into place.

Sophia Ruiz had been at the dinner. She could be clearly seen at a table two rows back from the front of the room, listening intently as Alexander gave his speech.

But even then, with that one other piece of evidence staring her right in the face, it just kept piling up. Near the end of his speech, Addison found the detail that confirmed her suspicions. Alexander Westing mentioned his father's belief in supporting cutting-edge medical research, specifically highlighting the Westing Foundation's investment in innovative treatment approaches. He spoke proudly about their recent investment in Horizon Cryonics, describing it as exactly the kind of revolutionary research that his father would have supported.

“Holy shit,” Addison breathed.

The Westing Foundation had financially invested in Horizon Cryonics. Alexander Westing would have known about the company's research into experimental cooling compounds. He would have understood the potential applications of HC-47, and he would have had the financial resources to purchase stolen compounds from desperate thieves like Oliver Reese.

And just like that, it all fell into place with devastating clarity. Jacob Westing's death from Alzheimer's disease had left his son watching helplessly as the neurological condition destroyed a brilliant mind. The memorial gala had brought together three artists who had benefited from Jacob Westing's patronage, artists who were now facing their own battles with neurological disorders that would eventually steal their abilities just as Alzheimer's had stolen his father's mind.

Alexander Westing was their killer. And he wasn't just killing random artists—he was trying to preserve the specific artists his father had supported, the people who represented Jacob Westing's artistic legacy. In his twisted logic, he was completing his father's work by ensuring that these artists would never suffer the kind of deterioration that had claimed Jacob's life.

She considered the fact that during their visit to Montgomery’s studio, Holden had indicated the police were seeking a reporting ban. She wondered if that was the reason he might think he was actually preserving these people somehow, rather than flat-out killing them. If so, he may not even understand that was he was doing was actually wrong.

Addison stood up from her desk so abruptly that she nearly knocked over her coffee cup, catching it just before it spilled across her keyboard. Her heart was racing with the excitement of finally identifying their killer and understanding his motivation and methodology. Alexander Westing had the means, the motive, and the opportunity. He had access to information about the victims through his father's philanthropic records, knowledge of experimental preservation techniques through his foundation's investment in Horizon Cryonics, and the financial resources to purchase stolen compounds.

She needed to find Javier immediately. They finally had their killer identified, and every minute of delay gave Alexander Westing more time to select his next victim from a list that she feared might be longer than she’d imagined.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

The digital clock on the dashboard of the bureau sedan read 6:42 AM as they pulled away from the curb. Addison clutched her third cup of coffee since midnight, though given the fresh excitement racing through her, she didn’t really need it.

“I really do have a good feeling about this,” Addison told Javier as he pulled away from the lot. “Everything seems to fit.”

“I trust you,” Javier said. “Besides, it’s better than twiddling our thumbs in the field office. You got the directions?”

"Alexander Westing," she said, scrolling through the information on her phone. "1247 Maple Ridge Drive. That's about fifteen minutes from here, if traffic cooperates."

Javier took the corner faster than he normally would have, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. "Any word from the field office on Hayes's list?"

"All present and accounted for, according to the last updates at three o’ clock. Every single person on that list has been confirmed safe at their current locations.”

"Good. At least we know this bastard hasn't gotten to anyone else yet."

Addison almost said That we know of, but decided to keep it to herself. They drove on, and Addison made herself put the coffee down. With a new batch of adrenaline and her nerves already on end, a caffeine jolt would only make matters worse.

The residential streets of Maple Ridge were quiet, the kind of suburban stillness that suggested most people were still hitting the snooze button on their alarms. Addison found herself studying each house they passed, wondering how many secrets were hidden behind those carefully maintained facades..

"There," Javier said, pointing to a modest two-story colonial with white shutters and a red door. "1247."

They parked across the street, and Addison immediately noticed that the driveway was empty. No lights were visible through any of the windows.

"Doesn't look like anyone's home," she said, unbuckling her seatbelt.

“Can’t be sure at this hour, though,” Javier said as they slowly got out of the car and stepped into the soft morning light.

They approached the house with the measured caution that had become second nature after years of not knowing what waited behind closed doors. Javier rang the doorbell while Addison peered through the front window, cupping her hands against the glass to cut the glare. But the blinds were drawn and she could see nothing inside. Ten seconds passed, then twenty, before Javier rang the bell again.

Javier pressed the doorbell again, holding it longer this time. The sound echoed hollowly inside the house, answered only by silence.

"We need a location trace," Addison said, pulling out her phone. "Same as we did with Elder. And if he’s inside and just not answering, I say we get started on pushing for a warrant as soon as humanly possible.”

While she made the call to the bureau, Javier walked the perimeter of the house, checking windows and looking for any signs of forced entry or recent activity. Addison did not follow but stepped to the side yard and watched him make progress. The backyard was as quiet as the front, with a small patio set and a neglected garden that suggested Westing wasn't much of a gardener. When she spoke into the phone, requesting an emergency phone trace for one Alexander Westing, she spoke softly, in a near whisper.

Addison finished her call and reclaimed her spot by him by the front door. She rang the bell again and even knocked this time, loud and abrasive. But still, there was no answer. Javier joined her, looking slightly irritated.

“They're running the trace now,” she told him. “We should have something in the next few minutes."

"I’m afraid that with a guy like this, ‘a few minutes’ could be a death sentence."

Addison silently agreed, testing the door handle, finding it locked as expected. "I keep thinking about those other victims. How they looked so peaceful, like they just went to sleep. If Westing is our guy and he's already moved on to his next target."

"We can't just kick the door down,” he said apparently reading her mind. “Not yet. We've got circumstantial evidence at best, and a decent lawyer would tear apart anything we found during an illegal search."

Addison's phone rang, interrupting her response. She answered it quickly, hoping for good news about the phone trace.

"This is Shine."

"Agent Shine, this is Tech Analyst Morrison. I've got bad news about that phone trace you requested."

Her heart deflated at once. "What kind of bad news?"

"We can't get a location. The phone you're trying to trace is either turned off or it's not the phone he's actually using. Could be a burner, could be he's just smart enough to disable location services. Either way, we're not getting a ping."

Addison closed her eyes, feeling the familiar frustration that came with hitting a dead end. "Understood. Thanks for trying."

She hung up and turned to Javier. "No luck. Phone's either off or he's using a burner."

"So, what now?"

“We push for a warrant,” she said as she made her way back to the car. “And I think you and I just stay here, in front of his house. An old-fashioned stake out.”

But honestly, she hated that idea, too. It meant more waiting. She leaned against their car, her mind working through the limited options they had. The morning was getting lighter, and she could hear the distant sounds of the city waking up. Somewhere out there, Alexander Westing was either planning his next move or had already made it.

His next move…

The phrase triggered something in her mind and she quickly pulled her phone out again. "The gala," she said, navigating to the site she’d bookmarked during her research. "I saved information about the event. There was a guest list of VIPs, big names they were using to advertise it."

“Well, yeah, I’d say so. You said David Montgomery was playing there, right?”

She nodded as she continued to scroll through the site until she found what she was looking for. She stepped in closer to Javier, the dwindling excitement of the moment growing tense. Between them. "Here we go," she said, showing Javier her phone screen. "Special guests invited to the VIP reception."

Javier scanned the list, his eyebrows raising slightly. "Some pretty big names on here. Some that I don't know, too, though and… wait, Trevor Bennett? The author?"

"You know him?"

"Not personally, no. But I've read a couple of his books. Psychological thrillers, pretty dark stuff. He's from around here, I think. A Seattle local. I’m pretty sure he’s been on the bestseller lists for the past few years." He smirked at her and said, “No spaceships or elves, so you probably didn’t read anything by him.”

“Oh, you’re hilarious. But your judgement aside, I do remember seeing his name somewhere recently." She started typing on her phone, her fingers moving quickly across the screen. "Let me just check something."

"I'll call the bureau, get Bennett’s address from records," Javier said, reaching for his own phone.

"Wait," Addison said, holding up a hand. "Look at this."

She had done a simple search for Trevor Bennett and set the search filters to local news. The first hit was all she needed. Epilogues presents their Breakfast and Books series with Trevor Bennet. She clicked the link, and what they both read was a prime example of how sometimes, in a case that seems to be going nowhere, there are moments when everything seems to happen at once.

Javier read the first few lines out loud, excitement growing thicker in his voice with each word. “This Friday at 8:00 AM, Epilogues Bookstore will be proud hosts to Trevor Bennet, who will be reading the first two chapters of his soon-to-be-released book The Last Witness.”

"He's doing a reading," Addison said, checking the time on her phone. She could hardly believe their luck, and had yet to decide if it was currently against them or in their favor. "Starting in about forty minutes.”

Javier looked at the address. "Epilogues. That's in the University District, right? About twenty minutes from here."

"Yes," Addison said, already getting into the car. "And if Bennett was at the gala and has some sort of sort of illness or disease, he could be next on his list." She hitched a thumb to Westing's house and said, "And currently, our most likely suspect just happens to be not home."

They got back in the car, and Javier started the engine. As they pulled away from Westing's empty house, the morning traffic was starting to build, but Javier navigated it with his usual skill. Addison found herself checking the time repeatedly. She knew they had plenty of time but with this killer, she doubted there was any sort of schedule to adhere to. Also, there was the terrible knowledge that if this killer—likely Westing, as far as she was concerned—was planning to strike before the reading, there was a very good chance that they were already too late.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Alexander Westing sat in the third row of folding chairs, his hands wrapped around a ceramic mug of coffee that had gone cold twenty minutes ago. The bookstore hummed with the kind of cultivated literary atmosphere that made him feel both at home and slightly nauseous. Epilogues Books & Coffee had opened its doors at seven sharp, and already thirty-five people had filtered in for the monthly Breakfast and Books event, their voices creating a low murmur of anticipation. He actually thought the idea behind the event itself was genius—an intimate way for true fans of the written word to connect with their favorite writers. But it also felt just a little pretentious.

The smell of fresh pastries filled the air, wafting from a long table positioned near the entrance where an array of breakfast offerings had been arranged. Blueberry scones sat alongside chocolate croissants, their surfaces still glistening from the bakery's ovens. Bagels with cream cheese, donuts dusted with powdered sugar, and what appeared to be homemade crepes created an abundant spread that advertised the bookstore's commitment to making their events feel special.

Westing's eyes moved across the gathering crowd, taking in the demographic that Trevor Bennett attracted. Mostly women in their forties and fifties, clutching well-worn paperbacks and looking like they belonged to book clubs that met in living rooms decorated with inspirational quotes about reading. A few younger people sat scattered throughout, probably graduate students from the nearby university who thought that attending literary events made them sophisticated. Everyone held either coffee or tea, the steam rising from their cups creating a cozy atmosphere that the bookstore's owners had clearly worked hard to cultivate.

The space itself was exactly what one would expect from an independent bookstore trying to compete with the chains. Exposed brick walls lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, warm lighting that came from table lamps rather than harsh overhead fixtures, and mismatched furniture that was supposed to feel eclectic but mostly just looked like they'd raided several estate sales.

His thoughts turned to Trevor Bennett, the reason he was here. Bennett, who was presumably somewhere in the back of the store, preparing for his reading. Bennett's announcement three weeks ago had changed everything. Early-stage dementia, the author had revealed in a carefully worded statement released through his publisher. He was still lucid, still writing, but the diagnosis was there like a death sentence hanging over one of the most brilliant literary minds of his generation. He’d estimated he might have one more book left in him after this latest release, but that would likely be it.

Westing had read Bennett's work obsessively over the past five years. The psychological depth, the way he could crawl inside a character's mind and expose their darkest thoughts with surgical precision. His latest novel, "The Last Witness," wouldn't be released for another six weeks, but Bennett had been doing these small, intimate readings from the manuscript. A chance for true literary enthusiasts to hear pure genius before the masses got their hands on it. He’d even held one down in LA a few days ago.

The irony wasn't lost on Westing that Bennett's final work was about memory, about how the mind betrays us in the end. Soon enough, that brilliant brain would start forgetting things. First small details, then larger concepts, then eventually the very essence of what made Trevor Bennett a master of his craft. The disease would steal it all, leaving behind an empty shell where genius once lived.

That's why Westing was here. He had already saved three artists from the ravages of time and decay. Each one preserved at the height of their creative power, their bodies unmarked by the violence that usually accompanied death. His revolutionary cooling agent worked quickly, efficiently, mimicking the effects of hypothermia while freezing the subject from the inside out. They simply went to sleep, their final moments peaceful, their last breath carrying whatever masterpiece they had been contemplating.

Originally, he had planned to wait. Bennett would finish his reading, sign a few books, maybe linger to chat with some of the more devoted fans. Then he would return home to his quiet house in the Magnolia neighborhood, where Westing could perform his work without interruption. The cooling agent worked best in controlled environments, and Westing had become quite skilled at making it look like his subjects had simply succumbed to some inexplicable medical event.

His hands trembled slightly as he lifted the cold coffee to his lips, pretending to drink while his eyes searched the bookstore's layout. The main floor was open concept, with the reading area positioned near the center where everyone could see. But there had to be employee areas, storage rooms, maybe an office where Bennett was waiting until eight o'clock.

Westing's anxiety spiked as he considered the logistics. He had never attempted preservation work with so many potential witnesses nearby. The cooling agent worked quickly, but not instantaneously. There would be a window of several minutes where Bennett would be incapacitated but not yet fully preserved. If someone discovered them during that time...

He forced himself to breathe slowly, to project the calm demeanor of just another literary enthusiast waiting to hear his favorite author read. Around him, conversations continued about Bennett's previous works, speculation about what excerpts he might choose to share, and the usual bookstore chatter about upcoming releases and reading recommendations.

A woman in the row ahead of him was telling her companion about how she had been following Bennett's career since his first novel, how devastating it had been to hear about his diagnosis. "Such a brilliant mind," she was saying. “Twenty-three books! It's criminal what that disease does to people."

If only she knew, Westing thought. If only any of them understood that he was here to prevent exactly that kind of tragedy. Trevor Bennett's genius would not be allowed to fade away, forgotten in the fog of dementia. He would be preserved at this moment, when his mind was still sharp, when he could still craft sentences that cut straight to the human soul.

Westing glanced at his watch. 7:53. Seven minutes until the reading was scheduled to begin. He needed to locate Bennett, assess the situation, and determine the best approach. The cooling agent was ready in the small vial tucked inside his jacket pocket, the delivery method already prepared.

Standing up as casually as he could manage, Westing made his way toward the back of the store, weaving between bookshelves and nodding politely at other patrons. He spotted what he was looking for near the restrooms: a door marked "Staff Only" that likely led to the employee areas where Bennett would be preparing.

"Excuse me," he said to no one in particular, loud enough for nearby customers to hear. "Where are the restrooms?"

A helpful customer pointed toward the back corner, and Westing headed in that direction. His heart began to beat faster with each step. As he passed the staff door, he noticed it was slightly ajar, revealing a narrow hallway beyond.

This was his chance. In less than ten minutes, Trevor Bennett would take his place at the podium to share his final work with the world. But Westing would make sure that this reading would not be his last. He would preserve the author's genius forever before dementia could steal it away.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Javier took the corner onto 45th Street faster than the morning traffic warranted and nearly sideswiped a car. The sedan's tires squealing slightly as they approached the University District, the siren blaring against the growing morning rush. Addison gripped her phone with one hand and the door handle with the other, watching the clock on the dashboard tick closer to eight o'clock. They were cutting it close, but they might still make it in time.

Her phone rang just as Epilogues Books & Coffee came into view. The large picture windows along the front glowed against the gray Seattle morning. She answered without looking at the caller ID.

"This is Shine."

"Addison, it's Loomis. Where are you on the Bennett situation?"

"Just pulling up to the bookstore now,” she said. “We're about two minutes before the reading is supposed to start."

"Good. I've got a backup unit en route to your location. They should be there in about five minutes."

“Perfect.”

The call ended as Javier parallel parked across the street from Epilogues, noting the steady stream of people moving in and out of the bookstore's front entrance. The breakfast crowd looked normal enough—middle-aged women clutching paperbacks, a few university students with laptops, the usual mix of literary enthusiasts who attended these kinds of events. Nothing seemed out of place from the street.

"I'm not sure we can wait for backup," she said, unbuckling her seatbelt as Javier shut off the engine. "If Westing is already inside and wanted to get a jump on things before the event even began... "

"Yeah, I agree,” Javier said, already checking his weapon. “Let’s get inside.”

They crossed the street quickly, weaving between parked cars and the occasional cyclist making their way to campus. The bookstore's entrance was propped open despite the cool morning air, and the smell of fresh coffee and baked goods drifted out onto the sidewalk. Addison could hear the murmur of conversation from inside, the kind of anticipatory chatter that preceded literary events. Soft, classical music played on the overhead speakers.

They entered the bookstore, immediately taking in the layout. The main floor was arranged exactly as Addison had imagined from the website photos—exposed brick walls lined with bookshelves, mismatched furniture creating cozy reading nooks, and a central area where folding chairs had been arranged in neat rows facing a small podium. About thirty people sat in the chairs, many checking their phones or enjoying some of the breakfast selection.

"Excuse me," Addison said quietly to a woman near the entrance who appeared to be an employee based on her name tag and the stack of books she was carrying. "We're looking for the manager."

"Oh, that would be Carol. She's over there by the coffee station, but she's dealing with some kind of situation right now." She frowned as she said this, looking just a bit uneasy.

Addison followed the woman's gesture to see a heavyset woman in her forties speaking in hushed but urgent tones to two other employees. They were standing behind a shelf of historical nonfiction over by the restrooms. Carol's face was flushed, and she kept glancing toward the back of the store with obvious worry.

Addison and Javier approached this trio carefully, trying not to attract attention from the waiting customers. Addison pulled out her badge, keeping it low so only the employees could see it.

"Carol? I'm Special Agent Shine, this is Agent Esposito. FBI. We need to speak with you immediately about Trevor Bennett."

Carol's eyes widened, and she stepped closer to them, lowering her voice even further. "Oh, thank God. Something's… well, I think something is wrong. Mr. Bennett went into our breakroom about twenty minutes ago to prepare for his reading, and now the door is locked and he's not responding to us."

"Locked how?" Javier asked.

"From the inside. We knocked, we called his name, nothing. And the reading was supposed to start five minutes ago. This isn't like him at all—he's always punctual, always professional."

“And you don’t have a key?”

“I don’t. The other daytime manager has it. I’ve called her but she’s not answering.”

Addison felt a spoke of danger pass through her. If Westing had gotten to Bennett, if he was in that room right now, performing his twisted preservation process, then they were already too late. But if the process took several minutes to complete, there might still be a chance to save him.

"Carol, I need you to clear the store immediately," Addison said, trying to keep her voice calm despite the urgency she felt. "Tell everyone there's been a medical emergency and ask them to exit quietly."

"A medical emergency?" Carol's face went even paler. "Do you think Mr. Bennett has been hurt?"

"We don't know yet, but we need to get everyone out of here as quickly as possible." Javier had already started moving toward the back of the store, his hand resting on his weapon. "Can you do that for us?"

Carol nodded, though she looked like she might be sick. "Yes, of course. Should I call 911?"

"We've already got emergency services on the way," Addison said, which was technically true even if they were FBI rather than paramedics. "Just focus on getting your customers to safety."

As Carol hurried toward the seating area to address the waiting crowd, Addison could hear her starting to make an announcement in a shaky but controlled voice. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm very sorry, but we're going to need to reschedule this morning's reading due to an unexpected medical situation. If you could please make your way to the exit..."

The response was immediate. Voices rose in concern and confusion as people began gathering their belongings and asking questions. A few customers approached Carol for more information, but she deflected them as best she could while gesturing toward the front door.

"Is Mr. Bennett all right?" one woman called out, clutching a worn paperback copy of Bennett's latest novel.

"We're taking care of the situation," Carol replied, her voice strained. "Thank you for your understanding."

Addison and Javier made their way toward the back of the store, moving between bookshelves and trying to remain inconspicuous despite the growing tension in the air. She could feel curious eyes following them, and she was certain that several customers had noticed their purposeful stride and the way Javier's jacket was positioned to provide quick access to his weapon.

They reached the back corner of the store where Addison could see a door marked "Staff Only" next to the restrooms. The door was closed, and she could hear no sound coming from beyond it. The silence felt ominous, especially given that someone was supposedly locked inside. She tested the knob, but as Carol had said, it was locked. The door appeared to be solid wood with a standard interior lock—not something that would be difficult to breach, but the noise would definitely attract attention from anyone still in the store.

Addison drew her Glock, keeping it low and close to her body to avoid alarming any customers who might still be lingering near the back of the store. Javier did the same, positioning himself on the opposite side of the door.

"Trevor Bennett?" Addison called out, her voice firm but not yet shouting. "This is the FBI. Are you all right in there?"

Nothing. No response, no sound of movement, no indication that anyone inside had heard her.

"Mr. Bennett, we need you to respond if you can hear us."

Still nothing.

Behind them, Addison could hear Carol's voice continuing to encourage customers toward the exit, though the crowd was moving slowly and several people were clearly reluctant to leave without understanding what was happening.

"We need to get in there," Addison said quietly. "If Westing's in there with Bennett..."

"I know. But we should wait for the last of the customers to clear out. Breaking down a door with civilians around."

"We might not have time to wait." Addison pressed her ear to the door, listening for any sound that might indicate what was happening inside. What she could hear made her blood run cold—a faint but unmistakable sound of someone breathing heavily, as if struggling or in distress.

"There's someone in there, and they're in trouble," she said, stepping back from the door. "We're going in."

Javier nodded grimly and positioned himself to kick the door. "On three?"

"On three."

They could hear Carol's voice from the front of the store, sounding more strained as she tried to answer questions from concerned customers while encouraging them to leave. The sound of their voices was gradually diminishing as people finally began to file out, but Addison knew there were still too many civilians in the building for comfort.

"One," Javier said quietly, raising his foot.

"Two," Addison added, adjusting her grip on her weapon.

"Three."

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Javier's foot connected with the door just below the handle. The wood splintered around the lock mechanism with a sharp crack that echoed through the back of the bookstore. The door swung open violently, slamming against the wall behind it as Addison and Javier rushed into the small breakroom with weapons drawn.

"FBI! Nobody moves!" Javier yelled.

The scene that greeted them was exactly what Addison had feared, yet somehow worse than she'd imagined. Trevor Bennett lay slumped in a chair beside a small round table, his eyes open but unfocused. His head lolled to one side as if he were struggling to stay conscious. His button-down shirt was wrinkled, his gray hair mussed, and there was a small trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth where he'd apparently bitten his tongue or busted his lip.

Standing over Bennett was Alexander Westing. And when Addison saw him, her chest tightened with a mixture of anger and pity. This was not the composed, well-dressed philanthropist she'd seen in the foundation's promotional materials. Westing was wearing a basic sweater and a pair of jeans, an attire that would help him blend in. But his graying hair was wild and unkempt, and his eyes held the fevered intensity of someone who had crossed a line from grief into madness. From just a casual glance, she could tell she was looking at a man not of sound mind.

In his right hand, Westing held a syringe filled with clear liquid. The needle glinted under the breakroom's overhead lights, and Addison could see that it was positioned just inches from Bennett's neck. His left-hand gripped Bennett's shoulder, holding the semi-conscious author in place.

"Stay back!" Westing shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. "You don't understand what I'm doing here. I'm saving him!"

Addison kept her Glock trained on Westing, but something about his demeanor made her hesitate. There was no malice in his expression, none of that cold calculation that she'd learned to recognize in killers. Instead, she saw the wild desperation of someone who genuinely believed he was performing an act of mercy. Javier strafed to the right so that they had him cornered.

"Mr. Westing," she said, keeping her voice calm and measured. "I'm Agent Addison Shine. This is Agent Esposito. We're here to help."

"Help?" Westing laughed, but the sound was hollow and broken. "No one can help. Don't you see? It's already starting. The forgetfulness, the confusion. Soon he'll be just like my father—brilliant one day, empty the next. I won't let that happen to Trevor. I won't let the disease steal another genius."

Bennett made a weak sound, something between a groan and an attempt to speak. His eyes tracked slowly toward Addison, and she could see the confusion and fear there. Whatever Westing had used to subdue him was clearly still affecting his motor functions and cognitive clarity.

"What did you give him?" Javier asked, his weapon also trained on Westing.

"Just a mild sedative," Westing replied, adjusting his grip on the syringe. "Nothing harmful. I needed him to be still for the preservation process. He was struggling to understand what I was trying to do for him."

Addison studied Westing's face as he spoke, noting the way his eyes darted between her and Bennett, the slight tremor in his hands, the sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the cool temperature of the room. This wasn't the controlled behavior of a cold-blooded killer. This was someone who had been driven to desperate measures by grief and false hope. This was someone who thought they were doing good.

"Alexander," she said, using his first name deliberately to try to establish a connection. "You said you're trying to preserve Trevor's genius. Can you explain to me how that works?"

Westing's expression brightened slightly, as if he were relieved to finally have someone who might understand his mission. "The cooling compound," he said, holding up the syringe. "It freezes the nervous system at the cellular level, stopping the progression of neurological damage. The subject enters a state of suspended animation, their cognitive abilities preserved forever at their current level."

The explanation sent a chill through Addison as she realized the full extent of Westing's delusion. He genuinely believed that the HC-47 was preserving his victims, not killing them. In his twisted logic, he was offering them immortality rather than death. She had no idea how he might respond when they told him otherwise… and potentially presented him with the truth.

"Alexander, where did you learn about this preservation technique?" she asked, slowly holstering her weapon. The gesture was risky, but she needed to de-escalate the situation and establish trust if she was going to talk him down. She noted that his eyes followed her motion and she could only hope that it helped to build some trust.

"I've been researching cryogenic preservation for months," Westing said, his voice taking on the enthusiasm of someone discussing their life's work. "Ever since my father's diagnosis. The medical establishment gave up on him, said there was nothing they could do. But I knew there had to be another way."

Javier followed Addison's lead and lowered his weapon slightly, though he kept it unholstered and ready to raise again at a moment's notice. "And you found information about this cooling compound?"

"HC-47," Westing said proudly. "Revolutionary research being conducted right here in Seattle. When I learned about its potential applications for neurological preservation, I knew I had found the answer."

"The answer to what?" Addison asked gently.

"To saving them!” he hollered almost maniacally. “To preventing the loss of irreplaceable talent." Westing's grip tightened on Bennett's shoulder. "David Montgomery was facing the end of his musical career. Margaret Hawthorn could barely hold her sculpting tools. Sophia Ruiz was having seizures that made dancing impossible. They were all dying slowly, losing pieces of themselves every day."

"So, you preserved them," Addison said, trying to keep her voice neutral.

"Yes! And now they're safe. They'll never lose their abilities, never suffer through the humiliation of physical decline. They're preserved at the peak of their artistic powers, exactly as they should be remembered." He looked at them wide-eyed, as if he could not understand how they simply weren’t grasping his greatness.

Bennett made another weak sound, and his eyes seemed to focus slightly on Addison's face. She could see him trying to speak, but whatever Westing had given him was still affecting his coordination.

"Alexander," Addison said, taking a small step closer. "I need to ask you something important. When you preserved David, Margaret, and Sophia, did you check on them afterward? Did you make sure the process was working correctly?"

"Of course, I checked on them," Westing said, though something flickered across his expression. "They were peaceful. Completely at rest."

"Hoe soon after you applied the compound?"

“Immediately after. Why?”

Addison felt her heart sink as she realized how completely Westing had misunderstood what he was doing. "Alexander, preserved biological functions and stopped biological functions are not the same thing."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that HC-47 doesn't preserve people. It kills them."

The words hit Westing like a physical blow. His face went pale, and the hand holding the syringe began to shake more violently. A flash of anger crossed his face and it was absolutely terrifying in those eyes.

"No, that's not possible,” he said. “I researched this extensively. The compound was designed for neurological preservation."

"It was designed for temporary nerve blocking in small, localized doses," Javier said, his voice gentle but firm. "We’ve spoken to the people who helped create it. The doses you've been using cause fatal hypothermia. You're not preserving these people, Alexander. You're murdering them."

"That's not true!" Westing's voice rose to a near-shriek. "I would never hurt them! I loved their work, I supported their careers. I've been trying to save them!"

"Then why haven't they contacted you since their preservation?" Addison asked. She was watching his hand carefully, wanting to make sure he didn't plunge the syringe down out of anger or frustration. "Wouldn't there be some sign that the process worked?"

Westing stared at her, his mouth opening and closing silently as he struggled to process what she was saying. The certainty that had driven him to commit multiple murders was beginning to crack, and Addison could see the first glimmers of horrible understanding in his eyes.

"You're lying," he said, but his voice lacked conviction. And she could see the glimmer of tears beginning to form in his eyes. "You're just, you’re trying to stop me from completing my work."

Addison reached slowly into her jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. "Alexander, I'm going to show you something. I want you to look at it and tell me if this is what preservation looks like to you."

"What are you doing?" Westing demanded.

"I'm showing you a photograph from David Montgomery's crime scene." She held up his phone, displaying an image that she knew might be devastating for Westing to see. "This is what your preservation process actually did to him. The photo was taken between six and nine hours after you injected him."

The photograph showed Montgomery's body as they had found it at the piano, but with the clinical clarity of crime scene documentation. The blue tinge to his skin, the unnatural stillness, the obvious indicators of death rather than peaceful slumber.

Westing stared at the image for a long moment, his breathing becoming rapid and shallow. "No," he whispered. "No, that's not right. He was supposed to be preserved. He was supposed to be safe!"

"Look at his skin color, Alexander," Addison said gently. “That's death by hypothermia."

"I don't understand," Westing said, his voice breaking. "The research said the compound could halt neurological decline. I thought if I could freeze their nervous systems at the right moment..."

"You thought wrong," Javier said. "The compound you stole is lethal in the doses you've been using. Every person you tried to preserve died within minutes of injection."

The full weight of what he had done began to sink in, and Westing's legs seemed to give out beneath him. He sagged against the table, still holding the syringe but no longer pointing it at Bennett.

"I killed them," he whispered. "I killed David. I killed Margaret. I killed Sophia."

"Yes," Addison said quietly. "You did."

"But I was trying to save them. I was trying to prevent what happened to my father." Tears were streaming down Westing's face now, and his entire body was shaking. "I watched him disappear piece by piece, day by day. I couldn't bear to see that happen to the artists who had benefited from his generosity."

"Alexander, your father died from Alzheimer's disease," Addison said. "That's not your fault, and it's not something you could have prevented."

"But I should have been able to do something! I had the resources, the connections, the foundation. I should have found a way to save him."

"Some things can't be saved," Javier said. "Some losses are just part of life."

Westing looked down at the syringe in his hand, then at Bennett's semi-conscious form. "I replicated it," he said, his voice filled with horror. "I gave them the same death my father had. Cold, confused, alone."

"Alexander, it's not too late to stop this," Addison said. "Mr. Bennett is still alive. We can get him medical attention, make sure he recovers from whatever you gave him."

But Westing wasn't listening anymore. His expression had shifted from grief to something darker, more dangerous. "I can't. My God, I can’t believe what I’ve done!" He let out a whimper and then a guttural cry of pure anguish.

Before either agent could react, Westing spun the syringe around and pointed it at his own neck.

"No!” Addison shouted.

"I deserve the same fate I gave them," Westing said, his thumb moving toward the plunger. "I deserve to die the way my father died."

Addison lunged forward, her hand closing around Westing's wrist just as he began to push the needle toward his neck. They struggled for a moment, Westing's desperation giving him strength that belied his appearance, but Addison's training and adrenaline gave her the advantage she needed.

Javier moved quickly to Westing's other side, grabbing his left arm and helping to restrain him. Together, they wrestled the syringe away from him, Addison carefully placing it on the table where it couldn't be reached. As soon as it had been taken from him, Westing’s legs gave out and he began to weep fiercely. The fight was completely out of him now.

"I wanted to save them," he sobbed. "I just wanted to save them."

"I know," Addison said, pulling out her handcuffs. "But now we need to save Trevor. And you're going to help us do that by telling us exactly what you gave him."

As she secured the cuffs around Westing's wrists, she could hear the sound of sirens approaching outside. The backup units had finally arrived, along with paramedics what would treat Bennett. The crisis was over, but the weight of what had happened—three talented artists dead because of one man's misguided attempt to preserve what he loved—would stay with her for a long time.

Bennett stirred slightly in his chair, his eyes beginning to focus more clearly on his surroundings. He would survive for however long his ailment would allow… no longer at the whim of Alexander Westing, but by the progression of time and age.

Sometimes, Addison reflected, that was the best outcome anyone could hope for.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

The breakroom at Epilogues felt much smaller and very cramped now with two additional FBI agents standing guard at the door and the weight of confession hanging heavy in the air. Alexander Westing sat slumped in his chair, his hands cuffed behind his back, tears streaming down his face as he stared at the table where the syringe of HC-47 still sat like evidence of his shattered delusions.

"I killed them," he repeated for the third time in ten minutes, his voice barely above a whisper. "David Montgomery, Margaret Hawthorn, Sophia Ruiz. I murdered them all."

Addison sat across from him, her phone’s voice recorder capturing every word of his confession. She didn’t think they’d get much more just now; Westing was going to need a sedative before it was all said and done. Javier stood near the door, occasionally glancing out toward the main area of the bookstore where paramedics were still working with Trevor Bennett. The author was conscious now and responding to questions, though he remained groggy from whatever sedative Westing had administered.

"Alexander," Addison said gently, "I need you to walk me through each incident. Start with David Montgomery."

Westing drew in a shuddering breath, struggling to compose himself enough to speak coherently. "I went to his rehearsal studio. I knew he practiced there late at night, alone. I thought it would be peaceful for him, surrounded by his music." His voice broke on the last word, and he had to pause to collect himself.

"How did you gain access to the building?"

"I told the security guard I was there to discuss commissioning a piece for my father's memorial.” His voice was becoming faster and he was stuttering a bit. He wasn’t going to last much longer. One of the medics who had come in to look over Bennett was looking at Westing cautiously. “David had performed at the foundation gala, so it wasn't unusual for me to contact him." Westing's hands shook despite being restrained. "I brought tea. I put the sedative in the tea."

"What kind of sedative?"

"Propofol. I researched the proper dosage online. I just wanted him to be calm, to not be afraid when I administered the preservation compound." Westing started crying again, his shoulders shaking. "I thought I was giving him eternal peace. I thought I was stopping the disease before it could steal his music."

Javier moved closer to the table. "And you injected the HC-47 where?"

"In his neck. I read that carotid injection would distribute the compound most efficiently throughout his nervous system." Westing looked up at them with red-rimmed eyes. "I positioned him at the piano afterward. I wanted him to be found doing what he loved most."

The clinical way Westing described his actions, combined with his obvious devastation at learning the truth, created a disturbing contrast that made Addison's stomach turn. This wasn't a monster describing his crimes—this was a grieving son explaining what he'd believed were acts of mercy.

"Tell me about Margaret Hawthorn," she said.

"Margaret was harder. She…she fought the sedative more than I expected. I had to restrain her briefly, which I hated doing." Westing's voice became even more broken. "She was so small, so fragile. The Parkinson's had already taken so much from her. I thought I was preventing further suffering."

"You broke into her home?"

"I entered through the sliding door to her patio. The lock was old, easy to... to…”

The medic stepped forward with a pained look on his face. “Can you guys get the rest of this later? He’s not looking too good. We should really hold off for now.”

They both nodded in unison. Addison was actually surprised he had not stepped in earlier.

"The behavioral therapist I called for should be here soon,” the medic said. “This level of psychological distress... "

"I'm fine," Westing said, though clearly he was anything but. "I need to finish this. I need to tell you everything."

Addison studied his face, noting the intelligence that remained clear in his eyes despite his emotional breakdown. "Alexander, help me understand your reasoning. What made you believe that freezing neural pathways would preserve cognitive function?"

Westing took several deep breaths, visibly trying to organize his thoughts. When he spoke, his voice took on the measured tone of someone accustomed to explaining complex concepts, though it was broken by periodic waves of grief.

"My father was brilliant," he began. "Truly brilliant. He could discuss art, literature, philosophy, science—any subject you could imagine. He spoke four languages fluently and had one of the most extensive art collections on the West Coast." Westing's voice grew stronger as he talked about his father's abilities. "When the Alzheimer's started, it was subtle. A forgotten name here, a missed appointment there. But then it accelerated."

"How long did the decline take?"

"Three years of watching him disappear piece by piece. One day, he couldn't remember my mother's maiden name. The next week, he couldn't recognize paintings he'd owned for decades. By the end, he didn't know who I was and it—"

A knock at the door interrupted the confession. Javier opened it to admit a woman in her forties carrying a briefcase and wearing the kind of calm, professional demeanor that Addison associated with crisis counselors.

"Dr. Jill Frederickson, behavioral therapist," the woman introduced herself. She looked directly to Westing, her focus solely on him.

“He's confessed to three murders and is a bit all over the place,” Javier said. “Do what you need, of course, but we’re going to need him in an interrogation room when he’s able.”

Frederickson nodded. "Agents, I think it would be best if you step outside while I work with him. This level of psychological trauma requires immediate intervention."

Addison gathered her recorder and notes, feeling oddly reluctant to leave Westing in his current state. Despite the horrible nature of his crimes, she found herself feeling sorry for him—a man whose love for his father and admiration for artists had been twisted into something monstrous by grief and false hope.

Addison and Javier left the breakroom and made their way through the empty bookstore toward the front entrance. Through the windows, she could see Trevor Bennett sitting in the back of an ambulance, talking animatedly with paramedics. He appeared to be fully alert now, probably telling them about his ordeal with characteristic literary flair.

"Think he'll be all right?" Javier asked, following her gaze.

"Bennett? Yeah, he'll be fine. Probably turn the whole experience into his next novel." Addison pushed open the front door, stepping out into the cool Seattle morning. “And I can’t say that I blame him.”

They walked toward their car, passing the cluster of emergency vehicles that had responded to Javier's call for backup. Crime scene technicians were documenting the breakroom, paramedics were finishing their evaluation of Bennett, and uniformed officers were managing the small crowd of curious onlookers who had gathered despite the early hour.

"Case closed," Javier said as they reached their sedan. "Three murders solved, killer in custody, potential fourth victim saved."

"Not a bad way to start the day," Addison agreed, though she felt the familiar mixture of satisfaction and sadness that came with closing a case like this one. They had caught their killer, but three talented artists were still dead, their lives cut short by someone who had genuinely believed he was saving them.

Javier opened the passenger door for her, a gesture that never failed to make her smile despite her exhaustion. As he walked around to the driver's side, Addison looked back at the bookstore where Dr. Frederickson was working to keep Alexander Westing from completely falling apart.

There would be more interviews later, once Westing was psychologically stable enough to provide additional details about his crimes. There would be reports to write, evidence to catalog, and probably testimony to give when the case went to trial. But for now, they had done their job.

They had stopped a killer and saved a life.

Javier slipped his hand into hers as they sat in the car, neither of them in any hurry to return to the field office and begin the mountain of paperwork that awaited them.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Addison was staring at the ceiling as the night lingered outside her window. The room was quiet; the only sound came from the rhythm of Javier's breathing beside her. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 2:17 AM, and she'd been awake for the better part of an hour and a half, her mind refusing to shut down despite the physical exhaustion that weighed on her limbs like lead.

The Westing case was closed. Alexander Westing was in custody and had admitted to everything right down to putting the ballet slippers on Sophia Ruiz. Trevor Bennett was safe, and three murders had been solved. By any measure, it had been a successful day.

So why couldn't she sleep?

She shifted carefully, trying not to disturb Javier, and studied his profile in the dim light filtering through their bedroom curtains. Even in sleep, his face held traces of the stress they'd both been carrying. The cases were taking their toll on both of them, but lately, Addison felt like she was drowning in the weight of unsolved puzzles and unanswered questions.

It wasn't just the active cases, though those were demanding enough. The Fearmonger investigation had been stalled for months, with twelve victims and no clear pattern to connect them beyond their mysterious deaths. Twelve people who had simply died of apparent fright, their bodies showing no signs of violence or obvious cause of death. The lack of progress gnawed at her daily, a constant reminder of her inability to protect people from a killer who seemed to strike at random.

And then there was Jane. The breakthrough with Golden Harvest had given her hope for the first time in years, but hope was its own kind of torture. After thirteen years of accepting that her sister was probably dead, the possibility that Jane might still be alive somewhere—trapped in a religious cult, forced into a life she never chose—was almost more painful than believing she was gone. The knowledge that the Boyer family had been recruiting vulnerable girls for Golden Harvest meant that Jane's disappearance had a purpose, a destination. But it also meant that for thirteen years, she might have been suffering while Addison built a career, found love, and moved on with her life.

The guilt was constant now, a low-level ache that colored everything else she did. How could she celebrate solving cases when her own sister remained lost? How could she find satisfaction in her work when the most important case of her life remained unsolved?

Javier stirred beside her, his arm reaching out unconsciously to find her in the darkness. His naked skin was warm against hers, and for a moment she considered waking him, talking through the thoughts that were keeping her awake. But he needed sleep, and she needed to stop relying on him to process every anxiety that crept into her head.

The clock clicked over to 2:30 AM, and something shifted in Addison's thinking. The mental exhaustion that had been weighing her down suddenly focused into a sharp point of curiosity. The Westing case had been solved because they'd identified the connection between victims—the gala, the foundation's support, the shared experience of neurological conditions.

The thought came to her like a bolt of lightning.

What if the Fearmonger was operating under a similar principle?

She'd been assuming that the Fearmonger's victims were chosen randomly. But what if there was a connection she'd missed? What if, like Westing's targets, there was a very obvious yet hidden think that linked them? She had, of course, been looking for similarities for months, but this neurological connection with the Westing case suddenly helped her to see things on a clearer, more direct track.

Addison slipped carefully out of bed, grabbing a robe from the chair beside the dresser. Javier didn't stir anymore as she padded barefoot across the hardwood floor and out of the bedroom. The house was quiet except for the usual sounds of settling wood and the distant hum of the refrigerator.

Her home office was actually a converted spare bedroom that she'd claimed as her workspace. Three walls were lined with bookshelves holding everything from medical textbooks to an autographed edition of Douglas Adams’s The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. As she sat down at her desk, an old toy figurine of Dana Scully from The X Files looked unflinchingly at her.

But it was the corner of the room that told the real story of her obsession. File boxes stacked three high contained every piece of documentation related to the Fearmonger case that she'd been allowed to bring home. The walls above the boxes were covered with newspaper clippings, printouts of victim profiles, maps marked with red dots indicating crime scenes, and photographs of all twelve victims arranged in chronological order of their deaths.

Addison turned on the desk lamp and surveyed the accumulated evidence of months of investigation. She'd read through every file dozens of times, memorized the details of each victim's life and death, traced and retraced potential connections until her eyes burned. But she'd never approached the case from the angle that had cracked the Westing investigation.

She opened her laptop and logged into the FBI database, waiting for the secure connection to establish. While the system loaded, she pulled out a fresh legal pad and began listing what she knew about each Fearmonger victim, focusing this time on their medical histories and family backgrounds rather than their deaths.

Victim number one: Sarah Hendricks, twenty-eight, found dead in her apartment with no signs of struggle or obvious cause of death. Previous investigation had focused on her job as a freelance graphic designer, her social connections, her financial situation. But what about her family? What about her medical history?

Addison pulled up Hendricks' complete file and began reading through sections she'd previously skimmed. Family history: parents divorced when she was twelve, raised by her mother. No significant medical issues. Mother deceased, father's whereabouts unknown. She made notes on the legal pad, then moved on to victim number two.

David Price, forty-three, construction foreman. Single, no children. Parents both deceased. Again, no obvious medical connections or family patterns that had seemed relevant to his death.

Victims three through twelve followed similar patterns. The investigation had focused on their deaths rather than their lives, on what connected them in their final moments rather than what might have connected them years or decades earlier.

For forty minutes, Addison worked through the files systematically, pulling out details about family medical histories, childhood experiences, parental backgrounds. The work was tedious and often frustrating—many of the files contained only basic biographical information, and digging deeper required cross-referencing with other databases and public records.

But slowly, a pattern began to emerge.

Sarah Hendricks' mother had been treated for severe anxiety and depression in the late 1990s. The treatment had been experimental, part of a clinical trial that had left her more psychologically damaged than when she'd started. Hendricks had grown up watching her mother's deterioration and had developed a deep distrust of mental health professionals.

David Price's father had also participated in experimental psychological treatment, though the details were harder to track down. Price had mentioned to friends that his father had been "messed up by some quack doctor" in Oregon during the late 1990s.

Jennifer Walsh's mother had similar experiences. Robert Kim's father had been part of what Kim described as "some kind of fear experiment that ruined his life."

Addison's pulse quickened as she pulled up more detailed records. Each of the Fearmonger victims had a parent who had participated in experimental psychological treatment. And not just any treatment, specifically, experimental fear response trials conducted in the late 1990s.

She opened a new search window and began looking for information about experimental psychology trials in the Pacific Northwest during that time period. The search results were limited, but one name kept appearing: The Cascade Center for Experimental Psychology in Bend, Oregon.

The center had operated from 1995 to 2000, conducting various studies on fear response, anxiety treatment, and trauma therapy. According to public records, the center had been shut down following multiple complaints from former participants and their families. The experiments had allegedly caused more psychological damage than they had prevented, leaving participants with severe trauma, anxiety disorders, and in some cases, complete psychological breakdowns.

Addison's hands shook slightly as she pulled up the complaint records. She could slowly feel solid connections snapping into place. Twenty-three formal complaints had been filed against the Cascade Center, each describing experimental procedures that sounded more like torture than therapy. Participants had been subjected to controlled fear responses, psychological conditioning, and what the complaints described as "deliberate traumatization for research purposes."

She cross-referenced the names from the complaint records with the family histories of the Fearmonger victims. Sarah Hendricks' mother, Margaret Hendricks. David Price's father, William Price. Jennifer Walsh's mother, Patricia Walsh. Robert Kim's father, James Kim. One by one, hour by hour the connections appeared.

And by 4:35 in the morning, it was undeniable: all twelve Fearmonger victims had parents who had participated in the Cascade Center's experimental fear response trials. All twelve had grown up watching their parents struggle with psychological damage caused by experimental treatment. All twelve had developed the same distrust of medical establishments, the same refusal to seek treatment for mental health issues, the same pattern of avoiding doctors that had made them perfect targets for someone who wanted their deaths to appear natural.

Addison leaned back in her chair, staring at the pattern she'd finally uncovered. Fearmonger wasn't selecting random victims. He was specifically targeting the children of people who had been damaged by experimental psychology. People who had learned from their parents' experiences that seeking help was dangerous, that doctors couldn't be trusted, that it was better to suffer in silence than to risk making things worse.

But why? What was the connection between the Cascade Center's experiments and the current murders? Was the killer someone who had also been affected by the center's work? A former researcher? A family member of a participant?

She made more notes, mapping out the timeline and connections. The Cascade Center had been shut down twenty-five years ago. The participants would be in their sixties or seventies now, if they were still alive. Their children—the Fearmonger's victims—were adults of varying ages, but all shared the common experience of growing up with parents who had been psychologically scarred by experimental treatment.

The breakthrough felt enormous, more significant than any lead they'd developed in months of investigation. For the first time since the Fearmonger case began, Addison had a clear direction for the investigation. She could trace the former participants, identify other potential victims, maybe even identify the killer himself.

But even as excitement surged through her, thoughts of Jane crept back into her consciousness. The Golden Harvest investigation was ongoing, but progress was slow. The religious organization was skilled at evading law enforcement, and the trail of missing girls was decades old. Yet Addison felt a renewed sense of obligation to crack that case as well. Jane had been missing for thirteen years, but that didn't make her any less deserving of justice than the Fearmonger's victims.

If anything, the Fearmonger breakthrough reminded her of what was possible when the right connections were finally made. Cases that seemed impossible could suddenly crack open when viewed from the right angle. Evidence that had seemed random could reveal clear patterns when examined through the correct lens.

Jane's case deserved the same level of persistence and creativity. The Boyer family's connection to Golden Harvest was just the beginning. Somewhere in the labyrinth of records and testimonies and missing persons reports was the key to finding her sister. And if Jane was still alive, if she was still trapped in that organization, then Addison owed it to her to keep searching until she found her.

The clock on her computer screen showed 4:47 AM. Javier would be awake in a few hours, and they'd return to the field office to follow up on the Westing case and continue their other investigations. But tonight, sitting in her home office surrounded by the accumulated evidence of unsolved mysteries, Addison felt more hopeful than she had in months.

Fearmonger had made a mistake in his victim selection. The pattern was there, waiting to be followed. And somewhere in the files and records and forgotten complaints from a defunct psychology center in Oregon was the key to stopping him.

She gathered her notes and carefully organized the files she'd been reviewing. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new leads to follow, new connections to explore. But tonight, for the first time in weeks, she felt like she was finally making progress on the case that had been haunting her dreams.

The Fearmonger's days were numbered. And if she could bring him down, then there was no reason she couldn’t also unravel the knots of the Boyer family as well.

NOW AVAILABLE!

FIND COURAGE

(An Addison Shine FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 12)

“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

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When Seattle becomes the stage for a bizarre tableau of mummified victims, FBI Agent Addison Shine's specialized skill set in pathology is put to the ultimate test. Can Addison dissect the link between cutting-edge science and archaic preservation rites before the next body fits the mold?

FIND COURAGE (An Addison Shine FBI Suspense Thriller–Book #12) is the twelfth 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!

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“Captivating and riveting serial murder with a twist of the macabre… Very well done.”

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“Extremely well written, and well worth buying and reading. I can't wait to read book two!”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

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FIND COURAGE

(An Addison Shine FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 12)

Kate Bold

Bestselling author Kate Bold is the author of numerous series in the mystery and thriller genres, including Meg Thorne, Heather King, Brynn Justice, Beth Drake, Maggie Flight, Addison Shine, Barren Pines, Nina Veil, Nora Price, Kelsey Hawk, Alexa Chase, Ashley Hope, Camille Grace, Harley Cole, Kaylie Brooks, Eve Hope, Dylan First, Lauren Lamb series.

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.

SERIES BY KATE BOLD

MEG THORNE

HEATHER KING

BRYNN JUSTICE

BETH DRAKE

MAGGIE FLIGHT

ADDISON SHINE

BARREN PINES

NINA VEIL

NORA PRICE

KELSEY HAWK

ALEXA CHASE

ASHLEY HOPE

CAMILLE GRACE

HARLEY COLE

KAYLIE BROOKS

EVE HOPE

DYLAN FIRST

LAUREN LAMB