F I N D

D E A T H

(An Addison Shine Mystery—Book 10)

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 NINENTEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

PROLOGUE

The ghostlike glow of the bioluminescent cultures cast a blue haze across the laboratory, giving Dr. Samuel Mitchell's weathered face an almost spectral quality. Unlike the stark, industrial spaces common to most research facilities, Mitchell had transformed his sanctum into something approaching an artist's studio. Custom-designed ventilation ducts snaked overhead like metal pythons, their brushed aluminum surfaces reflecting the ambient blue light. The walls displayed three-dimensional molecular models alongside framed photos of patients whose lives had been saved by his earlier breakthroughs.

This was Mitchell's third night working past midnight. His latest obsession—Allergene—promised to revolutionize treatment for severe allergies, potentially removing the need for emergency interventions altogether. Thirty years of dedicated research had culminated in this formula, this moment.

"Come on, you stubborn molecules," he muttered, adjusting the resolution on his holographic modeling array. The floating projection rotated slowly, showing a complex protein structure interacting with human cell receptors. "Show me what you're hiding."

The lab space around him bore the hallmarks of organized chaos. Three curved monitors displayed different data streams, one showing clinical trial results, another displaying histamine response metrics, and a third cycling through electron microscope imagery. He set his attention back on the molecular structure hanging in the air before him. Something was off about the latest batch of trial results. The efficacy rates were spectacular—better than anything he'd seen in his career—but there was an anomaly in the cellular interaction models that kept him awake at night.

He reached for his coffee, finding only cold dregs in the bottom of his favorite mug. The clock on the wall read 1:34 AM.

"Screw it," he said to himself, tapping commands on his keyboard. The hologram morphed, displaying a new simulation of the compound's interaction with mast cells. "One more run, then I'm calling it."

The lab had once been sterile and impersonal, but after taking over as lead researcher, Mitchell had made it his own. A vintage record player sat in the corner with his collection of classic jazz albums. The periodic table hanging on the wall was hand-illustrated, a gift from former students. Even his lab coat stood apart—custom-tailored with extra pockets and embroidered with the double helix logo he'd designed for the project.

The simulation completed with a soft chime. Mitchell leaned forward, eyes widening.

"That can't be right," he whispered.

He tapped rapidly on the keyboard, running a different analysis protocol. This time, the simulation showed the compound's behavior in the presence of different allergens. The results were the same.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed, running a hand through his thinning hair. "If this is accurate..."

The discovery was simultaneously thrilling and terrifying. There was a pattern in the molecular behavior that suggested something far beyond what they'd been developing. Not just a treatment for allergies, but potentially a way to reprogram the human immune system's response mechanisms entirely.

Or, if manipulated differently, to trigger them.

Mitchell reached for his phone, then hesitated. This kind of discovery needed verification before alerting the company. Too many careers had been derailed by premature announcements. He needed to run more tests, check his work.

His throat suddenly felt tight. Strange. He loosened his collar button and swallowed hard.

The tightness persisted, becoming uncomfortable. Mitchell reached for his water bottle, taking a long drink, but it didn't help. A prickling sensation spread across his neck and face. His breathing became labored.

"What the hell?" he gasped, pushing away from his desk. It was a question that sounded curious but was laced with concern. Something was wrong and it was getting worse by the second.

Something was very wrong. The tightness increased rapidly, constricting his airway. His hand went to his throat instinctively as panic set in. His face felt hot, swollen.

Anaphylaxis. He was having an anaphylactic reaction.

Mitchell stumbled toward the emergency first aid cabinet across the lab, knocking over a stack of research journals. His vision began to blur, black spots dancing at the edges. He'd never experienced allergies before aside from a bit of hay fever and a mild reaction from a bee sting. But he recognized the symptoms from decades of research.

His lungs burned with the effort to draw breath. He needed epinephrine. Now.

The first aid cabinet seemed miles away. Each step required monumental effort as his airways continued to close. His fingers fumbled with the latch, finally yanking it open.

Bandages, gauze, antiseptic, burn treatment—where was the damn EpiPen? This was an allergens lab for God’s sake so where…

The realization hit him with terrible clarity: there wasn't one. They weren't standard issue in the lab because none of the senior researchers had severe allergies. The irony might have made him laugh if he could breathe.

Mitchell collapsed against the cabinet, sliding down to the floor. His vision tunneled, darkness closing in from all sides. A wheezing sound escaped his lips—his body's desperate attempt to draw oxygen through his constricted throat.

His mind, even in crisis, remained analytical. This made no sense. He'd eaten the same lunch he always did. Used the same soap. Worn the same laundry detergent. There was nothing new in his environment except...

The Allergene compound? No, impossible. It wasn't airborne, and he hadn't even handled the physical samples today, just the data and simulations.

Mitchell's eyes darted around the room, looking for something, anything that might help him. Through the haze of his fading consciousness, movement caught his attention at the laboratory door. A figure stood there, watching.

Not a hallucination. Someone real.

He tried to raise his hand, to signal for help, but his limbs felt leaden. He couldn't speak, couldn't even whisper. The world tilted sideways as he slumped further down.

The figure stepped into the blue-tinged light—close enough for Mitchell to see but not close enough to identify. Not coming to help. Just... observing. Clinically. The way Mitchell himself had observed lab rats during his early research days.

With his remaining strength, Mitchell tried to focus on memorizing details—height, build, any distinguishing features—but his oxygen-starved brain refused to cooperate and darkness continued to rush toward him.

The last thing Dr. Samuel Mitchell saw was the figure turning away, disappearing back through the doorway, leaving him to die alone among his life's work. As consciousness slipped away, a final, terrible thought surfaced in his brilliant mind: this was no accident. Someone had just proven his research worked by using it to kill him.

The blue lights continued their ethereal glow over Mitchell's now-still form, the molecular models rotating serenely above their creator, indifferent to the fact that the hands that had built them would never move again.

CHAPTER ONE

Addison Shine looked quickly around the room, taking in the eight people who were all staring at her. There were six men and two women, all with expressions ranging from skepticism to barely concealed excitement. They sat arranged around the polished conference table in the Seattle field office's main briefing room, case files spread before them, pens poised. Each represented a different branch of authority in the investigation that had consumed the Bureau for nearly five years.

Addison focused on keeping her hands steady as she distributed the last of her autopsy reports around the table. The projector cast her findings onto the wall behind her in crisp detail—microscopic images of tissue samples, toxicology results, and her painstakingly documented conclusions.

"Kyle Jacobson, twenty-seven, found deceased five days ago outside of the convenience store where he works," Addison began, her voice clipped and professional despite the nervous energy coursing through her. "No visible signs of trauma, no defensive wounds."

She clicked to the next slide—a magnified view of cellular damage patterns.

"Like the previous victims attributed to the individual known as Fearmonger, cause of death was not immediately apparent. While a very above-the-weeds look would point towards cardiac arrest, the autopsy revealed this was not true. So…no cardiac arrest, no stroke, no respiratory failure that would be detected in a standard examination."

The air in the room felt charged. Fearmonger had evaded the Bureau for nearly nine months now, leaving behind victims who appeared to have died from literally being scared to death. The media had run wild with theories about how he killed without leaving a trace, leading to his nickname. They had literally turned him into a boogeyman.

"But this time," Addison continued, feeling the weight of her discovery, "I found something."

She clicked through to a slide showing comparison charts of chemical analyses.

"After conducting specialized tests beyond our standard protocols, I detected trace amounts of a thallium-esque toxin in the victim's tissues,” she went on. “It's partially why it's been so difficult to identify in previous victims. It metabolizes quickly, leaving minimal residue, and what remains degrades further during standard preservation processes."

Special Agent Hargrove, a veteran investigator with salt-and-pepper hair and perpetually loosened tie, raised his hand. "Dr. Shine, could you break that down into terms those of us without medical degrees might understand?"

A few chuckles rippled through the room. Addison nodded, having anticipated the request.

"Imagine a poison that's designed to disappear after it does its job," she explained. "Thallium is a heavy metal poison that causes a range of symptoms similar to those reported in Fearmonger's victims—weakness, tingling extremities, and eventual organ failure. But this isn't thallium. It's something similar but modified to be virtually undetectable unless you know exactly what you're looking for."

She clicked to another slide showing a molecular structure.

"Based on its molecular composition and the way it binds to cellular structures, I believe this toxin was specifically engineered to mimic natural bodily processes. To the untrained eye—or even to a trained one not looking for the right markers—victims appear to have died from sudden and unexplained organ failure. Or that the entire body was shut down…that they were scared to death."

Special Agent in Charge Diana Loomis leaned forward. "And you're confident in these findings, Dr. Shine?"

"Yes, ma'am. I've run the tests multiple times, consulted with toxicologists, and cross-referenced against known compounds. This is no naturally occurring substance. Someone created this specifically to kill without detection."

"Which means," Loomis said, completing the thought, "we're dealing with someone who possesses advanced knowledge of biochemistry and toxicology."

"Exactly." Addison clicked to her final slide. "Based on the complexity of this compound, Fearmonger likely has medical training, possibly in pharmacology, toxicology, or a related field. He may work, or have worked, in healthcare or pharmaceutical research. And I know that sounds like we’ve already thinned out the field considerably, but it would be more people than you’d think.”

The room fell silent as the implications sank in. Nine months years of investigation, eleven victims, and they finally had their first real lead.

Loomis stood, taking control of the meeting. "This is exceptional work, Agent Shine. Truly." She turned to the assembled agents and directors. "We'll need to establish task forces immediately. Hargrove, coordinate with pharmacology experts to identify potential sources for the compounds needed to create this toxin. Reynolds, I want a list of everyone with the expertise to synthesize something like this in the Pacific Northwest."

The energy in the room shifted as the agents began jotting notes, already planning their approaches. There was an excited stirring of hope and promise in the air.

Addison cleared her throat. "If I may, Special Agent in Charge Loomis, I've already begun some preliminary work tracking potential sources."

All eyes returned to her. A few looked uncertain while others bore the clear weight of scrutiny.

"I've spent the last seventy-two hours consulting databases of regulated compounds and research facilities, but there are too many variables to narrow down this approach effectively." Addison pulled up a map showing dozens of highlighted locations. "These are just the legitimate facilities in Washington state alone that work with precursor chemicals that could be used to create this toxin. And that's assuming Fearmonger isn't synthesizing components himself." She switched to another slide showing a statistical analysis. "I believe we need to focus on victim selection patterns. I've run demographic analyses on all eleven victims, and there are subtle commonalities that could indicate—"

"Thank you, Dr. Shine," Loomis interrupted, her tone polite but firm. "Your initiative is appreciated, but we have specialized teams for this phase of the investigation. Your expertise has given us the breakthrough we needed with the autopsy findings."

Addison felt her enthusiasm deflate. "Of course, but I've developed a preliminary profile based on the toxicological findings that might—"

"And we'll certainly review that information," Loomis said, cutting her off again with practiced diplomacy. "Agent Westfield heads our behavioral analysis for this case. He'll incorporate your insights."

Agent Westfield, a narrow-faced man in his late thirties with wire-rimmed glasses, gave Addison a perfunctory nod without looking up from his notes.

"For now," Loomis continued, "we need to focus on sourcing this toxin. Narrow the field of suspects based on capability and access."

The discussion moved on as various team leaders outlined their approaches. Addison remained standing at the front of the room, suddenly superfluous to the investigation she had just cracked open. She quickly got the impression that she was being subtly dismissed. She’d busted her ass performing the autopsy and in the end, her report and presentation had lasted less than ten minutes.

After fifteen minutes of strategy discussion that pointedly didn't involve her, Addison quietly gathered her materials. As the meeting continued without her, she slipped out the door, her victory feeling increasingly hollow. She was still quite proud of what she’d managed to accomplish, but she also felt like she’d been gently pushed away from the cool kids’ table to eat alone.

The hallway outside seemed unnaturally quiet after the intensity of the briefing room. Addison leaned against the wall, allowing herself a moment of frustration. After four days of working almost eighteen hours at a stretch, after the breakthrough that might finally bring Fearmonger to justice, she was being sidelined.

They're just doing their jobs, she thought to herself, trying to be reasonable. Division of labor. Specialization. Standard Bureau procedure. It didn't help much.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. A text from Javier. Just seeing his name on her phone lifted her spirits a bit. The text read: How'd it go?

She stared at the screen, unsure how to answer. Professionally, it had been a triumph—the kind of forensic discovery that made careers. And yet...

Fine, she typed back. Tell you later.

She pocketed her phone and headed toward the elevator, her footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. The rational part of her brain understood why Loomis had compartmentalized the investigation. Different agents had different specialties. That was how the Bureau worked. She knew this and understood it perfectly.

But the part of her that had spent countless nights hunched over microscopes and mass spectrometers, the part that had caught details eleven different medical examiners had missed—well, that part felt cheated.

The elevator arrived with a soft chime. As Addison stepped inside, she noticed Agent Westfield hurrying down the hall toward her, manila folder in hand.

"Agent Shine," he called, slightly out of breath. "A moment, please?"

Addison held the elevator door. "What can I do for you, Agent Westfield?"

He slipped inside beside her, the door closing behind him. "Your profile notes," he said, tapping the folder. "They're quite thorough."

"Thank you."

"But there's something I don't understand about your victim selection theory." He flipped open the folder, scanning her notes. "You've flagged a potential connection to medical research, but you haven't explained your reasoning."

Addison studied him, trying to gauge his sincerity. "It's more of an intuitive leap at this point….that’s why there’s not much of an explanation. Something about the precision of the toxin's effects suggests someone with intimate knowledge of human physiology. And the victims, while seemingly random at first glance, all have tangential connections to healthcare."

"Such as?"

"Kyle Jacobson worked as a pharmacy cashier during college. Victim number eight, Patricia Mendez, was a hospital administrator. Victim three, Robert Chen, had a cousin who worked for a medical supply company."

Westfield frowned. "Those connections seem tenuous at best. The research aspect is impressive as hell, of course…but you understand what I mean, right?”

"I do. Which is why I didn't emphasize them in the briefing," Addison admitted. "But in my experience, killers this methodical don't choose victims randomly. There's a pattern we're not seeing yet."

The elevator reached the ground floor, doors sliding open to reveal the building's bustling lobby.

"I'd like to hear more about these theories," Westfield said, surprising her. "Off the record, of course. Loomis has her approach, and I respect that. But I've been working on this case for seven months now—almost since the start—and I have nothing to show for it. I'm not above exploring alternative angles."

Addison felt a flicker of vindication. "I'd be happy to discuss it. But why the interest? You didn't seem particularly engaged during the briefing."

Westfield offered a thin smile. "Let's just say I've learned to keep my skepticism visible when Loomis is managing a case. It keeps expectations manageable."

"Office politics?"

"Bureau survival tactics." He gestured toward the exit. "Coffee? I've got twenty minutes before I'm due back."

Addison hesitated, torn between professional resentment and the desire to remain involved in the case. "Make it thirty minutes, and you're on."

They headed toward the exit together, Addison's mind already spinning through the connections she'd identified, the patterns still waiting to be discovered. Perhaps all wasn't lost after all. Even if just one single agent recognized the potential in her work, she’d consider it a success.

Still, as they pushed through the revolving doors into the gray Seattle afternoon, she couldn't shake the feeling that something critical had been overlooked—something hiding in plain sight among the slides and reports she'd left behind in that briefing room. The thought nagged at her, persistent and troubling.

Fearmonger had evaded capture for nine months now and had taken eleven lives. He wouldn't make it easy for them now, even with this breakthrough. And because there seemed to be no pattern to when he struck, it would be impossible to predict when and where he might strike next.

CHAPTER TWO

Addison kicked off her shoes the moment she entered her apartment, letting them tumble against the wall. The clock on her microwave read 5:38 PM. Compared to the past four days, it had been a shorter workday but she still felt exhausted. A professional dismissal disguised as praise was apparently draining.

She tossed her keys into the ceramic bowl on the counter and headed straight for the fridge. One lonely bottle of white wine stood sentinel among takeout containers. She grabbed it, then reconsidered and reached for her phone instead.

Her finger hovered over Javier's contact before sliding past it. No, this wasn't a conversation for Javier. He was FBI through and through, and while he'd sympathize, he'd also probably tell her that Loomis was right. Protocol existed for a reason. And then he’d also come over in an hour and they’d talk about it some more. And honestly, she didn’t want to talk about it with Javier. After the four days she’d had, arguing was not how she wanted to spend tonight with him.

Besides, she needed someone who understood the science. Someone who'd faced bureaucratic walls and found ways around them. Someone who wouldn't just validate her frustration but help her channel it productively.

Ray Cuthbert's contact information stared back at her from the screen. Had it really been five months since they'd last spoken? She felt a twinge of guilt. Ray had been more than a mentor; he'd been the closest thing to a father figure she'd had since her own dad had retreated into the fog of grief and alcohol. The distance hadn't been intentional. Just the gradual drift that happens when life gets complicated. The Fearmonger case. Her relationship with Javier. The renewed search for Jane. An insane work schedule. Each had pulled her further from regular check-ins with the man who'd taught her everything she knew about forensic pathology.

She pressed call before she could talk herself out of it, feeling strangely nervous. Would he be annoyed? Dismissive? Had she waited too long?

She could picture Ray sitting in that ancient leather armchair with a glass of scotch, reading some obscure medical journal no one else cared about. Five rings. Six. She was about to hang up when his gruff voice answered.

"This better be good. I'm in the middle of the first relaxing evening I've had in weeks."

Despite her mood, Addison smiled. "And hello to you too, Ray."

"Addison?" The surprise in his voice was evident.

"Yeah, it’s me.”

“It’s…well, it’s nice to hear from you. It’s been…what…how long?”

“About five months,” she answered.

“Five months of radio silence and you call on the one night the Mariners are actually winning."

"Sorry to interrupt your baseball game," she said, collapsing onto her couch. "I can call back—"

"Don't you dare," Ray interrupted. "I've got a remote. Baseball's on mute. Talk to me."

The familiar gruffness in his voice made her chest ache with a feeling she couldn't quite name. Part nostalgia, part relief. Ray Cuthbert had been the only person to believe in her when she'd first started as a medical examiner. He'd taught her to see what others missed, to trust her instincts when evidence seemed contradictory.

"I identified Fearmonger's kill method," she said without preamble.

A low whistle came through the phone. "The ghost everyone's been chasing for months? That's my girl. Has there been an arrest?”

“No. Not yet. But I led the autopsy of his latest victim and may have managed to find the first actual lead.”

“What'd you find?" The excitement in his voice made her heart swell a bit.

"A thallium-esque toxin. Modified to metabolize quickly and leave minimal trace evidence. Professional job."

"Someone with medical training?"

"Almost certainly."

"So why do you sound like you found a decomp on a hot day instead of just solving the case that's had the Bureau stumped for years?"

Addison sighed. "Because I didn't 'solve' anything according to SAIC Loomis. I just performed an autopsy. Now the 'real' investigators will take over."

She recounted the meeting in detail, the initial excitement giving way to dismissal. Each word felt more bitter than the last.

"Classic bureaucracy," Ray said when she finished. "They wanted a medical examiner, not a profiler."

"I know, I know. Stay in my lane."

"Did I say that? Besides…it was the bureau who wanted you moved to agent three years ago, correct?"

“Correct.”

“Maybe they fear having the same person running the autopsies and the case could lead to hang-ups?”

“Maybe,” she said with a tired sigh.

The sound of ice clinking against glass came through the phone. "Well, you know how it goes. The Bureau has protocols and procedures that make the most rigid autopsy look like freestyle jazz. They need their boxes checked by the right people with the right titles."

"So I should just back off? Let them handle it their way?"

Ray laughed outright. "When have you ever backed off from anything in your life? I'm just saying, understand what you're up against. Look back to your roots. They asked you to lead the autopsy. Maybe you rest on that despite your current title and leanings as an agent."

Addison pressed her fingers against her temples. "I hate politics."

"Everyone does. Doesn't make them any less real." He paused. "So what will you do?"

"What do you think I'll do?"

"Keep digging, obviously. You've never met a grave you didn't want to excavate further."

"I resent that characterization of my professional curiosity."

"Resent away. Doesn't make it less true." His voice softened. "Just be careful, Addison. You know if you press too hard or argue with the wrong people, you may just be removed completely.”

"I know." She swallowed down the story of how she’d already been removed completely from the case once before. She didn’t want to delve into that story.

"And call me more than once every five months, would you? I'm not getting any younger here."

"I've been busy."

"Too busy for the man who taught you how to distinguish drowning from strangulation when the hyoid bone is intact? I'm wounded."

The familiar banter loosened something in her chest. She knew he was just trying to be funny, but he was right. "How's retirement treating you?" she asked.

"Boring as hell. I've taken up birdwatching."

"You have not."

"Have too. Turns out death isn't the only thing that requires a keen eye for detail. Did you know there are seventeen different species of sparrow in Washington state alone?"

"Are you seriously—"

Her phone beeped with an incoming call. She pulled it away from her ear to check the screen. Not Javier as she'd expected, but a name that sent her back ten years: Melissa Holden. It was a name she’d seen quite recently in her background rummaging through Jane’s case.

"Ray, I need to take this. It's about... something personal I've been looking into."

"Your sister?"

Addison's breath caught. "How did you—"

"I know you, kid. Always working at least two cases at once. Go on, take your call. But don't be a stranger, alright?"

"I won't. And Ray? Thanks."

"Anytime, Addison. Anytime."

She switched calls, her heart suddenly racing. "Melissa?"

"Addison! I got your message on Facebook. Sorry it took me a couple days to call back. Things are crazy with the kids and work."

"No problem. Thanks for calling at all." Addison straightened, shifting into investigation mode.

“So, what’s the personal question you said you needed to ask?”

Addison had to gather her thoughts to make sure everything was going to come out right. She hasn't actually spoken to Melissa in roughly three years—back when Melissa came through Seattle for work and they met for coffee. "I'm trying to track down some information about people from the old neighborhood. Specifically…do you remember a girl named Leslie? She would have been around my sister's age, and she was homeschooled."

"Leslie Boyer? Yeah, I remember her. Quiet kid, but cute as a button. She lived in that yellow house at the end of Maple Street."

Addison grabbed a notepad. "Boyer….you’re sure?”

“Yeah, I’m positive on that. Her mom was always volunteering at the library’s Friends of the Library book sales.”

“Ah, yes…and I remember you and those book sales.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“So…Leslie…did you know her well?"

"Not really. She wasn't allowed to hang out much with other kids. Super strict parents.”

“What about her mother?”

“Sorry, but no. I mean…just polite conversation at those sales. But that’s about it. Do you mind if I ask why you’re suddenly interested in her?"

"She was mentioned in some old... papers I found regarding a cold case. It might mean nothing, but…I don’t know. It sort of hit close to home and I wanted to make sure I wasn’t making stuff up. Did you keep in touch with her at all?"

Melissa's voice lowered. “What?"

“Like, even if you weren’t friends, did you ever talk to her? I know she was a bit younger than us, but I—”

“Addison, Leslie's dead. Has been for years."

Even though she'd known this would be a possibility, the confirmation hit Addison hard. "Oh…I see. Do you know what happened?"

"Suicide. She was in her early twenties. Pill overdose, I think."

"When exactly did this happen?"

"Let me think... I was pregnant with my first, so... about seven years ago? There was a small notice in the local paper. My mom emailed it to me."

Addison scribbled notes furiously. "Is there anything else you remember about her? Anything unusual?"

"Not really. She was just... there, you know? Then she wasn't. One of those people who just never made much of an impression."

After a few more questions that yielded little additional information, Addison thanked Melissa and ended the call. She immediately opened her laptop and began searching. Leslie Boyer + suicide + Washington State.

The results were sparse. A three-line obituary in the Peninsula Daily News from seven years ago. No social media profiles. No college attendance records. No employment history that showed up in a standard search. It was as if Leslie Boyer had moved through the world without leaving fingerprints.

For someone who had died only seven years ago, in the age of digital everything, the absence was glaring. People left traces—social media accounts, forum posts, photos tagged by friends, graduation announcements, employment records. Leslie had nothing.

If not for the obituary confirming her death, Leslie Boyer might never have existed at all.

Addison drummed her fingers on the keyboard. Something about this felt off. Maybe it was just coincidence that Jane's diary mentioned a girl who later committed suicide. Maybe it meant nothing. But Addison didn't believe in coincidences.

She scrolled through her contacts and found the number of a woman named Hannah Grant. They'd worked together briefly on a case involving suspected human trafficking two years ago. They weren’t really friends, though they did stop to chat briefly whenever they passed one another in the halls of the field office. Hannah specialized in abductions and missing persons—if anyone could dig deeper into Leslie Boyer's story, it would be her.

She knew it might be a slight risk to ask a bureau employee to look into something for a personal matter, but Addison felt it was worth the risk. Besides that, by the time the worry truly settled in, the phone had already started ringing on the other end. The call connected on the second ring.

"This is Grant."

"Hannah, it's Addison Shine."

"Shine! Long time. Wait…are you calling about the pharmacological toxin case? I heard you cracked it. Nice work."

"Not exactly calling about that, no. I need a favor.” She hesitated and then added: “Off the books. And if you’re uncomfortable with that, we can end the call now and pretend it never happened.”

A pause. "Are you kidding? Off-the-books favors are my favorite kind. What's up?"

"I'm looking into a suspected suicide from about seven years ago. Woman named Leslie Boyer, early twenties. She grew up just outside of the city…not sure where she died. She killed herself via a pill overdose. Thing is, I can barely find any record she existed."

"And this relates to an active case how...?"

Addison hesitated. "It might connect to my sister's disappearance. Which is why it would be off the books."

A long pause stretched out between them. Hannah knew about Jane. Most people in the Bureau did—it was part of Addison's origin story, the tragedy that had shaped her career path. But they had never spoken about it.

"What makes you think there's a connection?" Hannah asked, her voice gentler.

"My sister's diary mentioned this same girl. They were friends. Her final few journal entries mentioned Leslie…and then she was gone. It seems too coincidental that this girl, who was close to Jane, later died under questionable circumstances. Especially because there's literally no digital footprint for this woman. In this day and age, that's practically impossible unless someone scrubbed it."

The line went quiet. Addison could almost hear Hannah weighing the request.

"Look, I'm not asking for a full investigation," Addison continued. "Just... could you run her name through some of your specialized databases? See if anything flags? I'd do it myself, but missing persons isn't my area."

"What exactly are you looking for?"

"Anything irregular. School records. Medical history. Anything that might stand out as even remotely out of the ordinary."

"Send me what you have. I'll see what I can dig up.”

“Thanks so much, Hannah.

"Of course. I'll call you if I find anything."

After they hung up, Addison stared at the sparse information on her screen. Leslie Boyer, practically a ghost. Jane's friend. Someone who had spent time with Jane, played with her, and maybe told her secrets no one else had ever known.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Javier: Late night at the office. Raincheck on dinner?

Addison typed back: No problem. Working on something anyway.

She looked at the time. It was only 6:27 PM, but she knew she should eat something. After the long days she’d just put behind her, she should probably sleep soon, too.

Instead, she opened a new document and began organizing what little she knew about Leslie Boyer, creating a timeline alongside what she remembered of Jane's disappearance. Two separate cases, seemingly unrelated.

But in Addison's experience, nothing was ever truly unrelated. Not when it came to the dead and the missing. Everything connected eventually. You just had to find the right thread to pull...and to keep pulling until it delivered answers right at your feet.

CHAPTER THREE

Lester Fabri shifted uncomfortably in his ergonomic chair, struggling to maintain the appearance of interest. The quarterly earnings meeting of Helix Pharmaceuticals had dragged on for forty-seven minutes already, and they were only on slide eighteen of thirty-three. The boardroom's climate control system kept the air at a perfect seventy-one degrees, yet his collar felt increasingly restrictive as the CFO droned on about year-over-year revenue growth.

"As you can see from this chart," said Trevor Michaels, the CFO, gesturing to a forest of bar graphs, "our R&D investment in the antihistamine sector has yielded promising returns, particularly with the Allergene line showing a sixteen percent uptick in projected market penetration."

Lester glanced down at the printed materials before him, flipping to the next page with practiced precision. Twenty years on the board had taught him the art of appearing engaged while his mind wandered. He'd perfected the contemplative nod, the thoughtful frown, the precisely timed note-taking that made it seem as if he was deeply engaged.

The coffee and pastry table at the back of the room was tempting. He’s only briefly visited before the start of this horrendous meeting and had settled for a donut and a cup of French vanilla coffee. A quick scan of the faces around the polished mahogany table confirmed he wasn't alone in his boredom. Richard Hammond, the CEO, maintained his usual mask of stern attention, but his fingers tapped a silent rhythm against his leather portfolio.

He also noticed that there was something of an invisible elephant in the room. Everyone was aware that they had lost Dr. Mitchell just two days ago to a freak accident that seemed to be allergy-based (which was ironic as hell if you were to ask Lester). Mitchell’s name had only been mentioned a single time, almost out of obligation, but that had been all. The loss of their lead researcher had cast a pall over the company, though business continued unabated.

"If we can direct your attention to page seventeen," Trevor continued, "you'll note the efficiency metrics have improved across all production facilities, with our Seattle plant showing particular—"

"Excuse me," Catherine Lawson interrupted, rising from her seat. As VP of Marketing, she rarely spoke during the financial portions of these meetings, preferring to save her considerable charisma for her own presentations. Lester noticed the slight tremor in her voice. Catherine stood with one hand braced against the table, the other loosening the silk scarf around her neck. Her complexion, normally flawless, appeared flushed.

"Is everything okay?" said Hammond's assistant, moving toward the refreshment table.

Catherine nodded gratefully, then frowned, her free hand moving to her throat. She coughed once, then again with more force. “Yes, just…need some water. Please…go on.”

Trevor paused his presentation, looking annoyed at first, then concerned as Catherine's coughing intensified.

"You’re sure you’re okay?" Hammond asked, leaning forward.

Catherine couldn't answer. Her coughing gave way to a wheezing sound as she clutched at her throat. She tried walking to the snack table where a few bottled waters waited. It was more of a stumble, really. Her eyes widened with unmistakable panic as she neared the table.

"Catherine?" Lester rose from his seat, alarm cutting through his boredom.

She staggered backward, knocking over her chair. Her face had progressed from flushed to an alarming shade of crimson, with splotchy patches appearing across her cheeks and neck. Her eyes were wider now, more than just alarm but something much more severe.

"Oh my God," gasped Marianne Wells, another board member. "Is she choking?"

"Call 911!" Hammond barked to his assistant, who fumbled for a phone.

Lester circled the table quickly, approaching Catherine as she doubled over. He was trying his best to remember the exact motions of the Heimlich maneuver from when he’d learned it back at a training from a company retreat years ago. "Was it the Danish?"

Catherine couldn't respond, her fingers clawing at her collar now, her breathing a terrible, thin wheeze.

"It doesn't look like choking," said Dr. Patel, the company's medical director, pushing past Lester. "Catherine, do you have any allergies? Are you allergic to anything?"

Catherine's eyes bulged as she tried and failed to speak. She slumped against the wall, sliding down until she sat on the floor, her legs splayed before her. The wheezing grew fainter.

"Her EpiPen," Marianne said suddenly. "Check her purse. She carries an EpiPen."

Lester hadn't known Catherine had allergies. He watched as Hammond dumped the contents of Catherine's designer handbag onto the boardroom table. Lipstick, wallet, phone, keys, tissues, mints—no EpiPen.

"I don't see it," Hammond said, his usual commanding presence faltering. "Where would she keep it?"

"Briefcase," Dr. Patel suggested, already searching Catherine's leather portfolio.

Lester turned back to Catherine in time to see her eyes roll back. The wheeze had stopped. So had her desperate clawing at her throat. Her hands fell limply to her sides.

"She's not breathing," he said, his voice sounding distant to his own ears.

Dr. Patel abandoned the briefcase search and knelt beside Catherine, checking her pulse. "Lay her flat," he ordered.

Together, they eased Catherine onto the carpet. Her face had progressed from red to a dusky purple, the splotches now covering her neck and disappearing beneath her blouse collar.

"Does anyone know CPR?" Dr. Patel asked, already positioning himself to begin chest compressions.

Several board members stepped forward, then hesitated, their corporate confidence evaporating in the face of actual crisis.

"I took a course," Lester volunteered, though it had been over a decade ago.

"Ambulance is four minutes out," Hammond's assistant called from the doorway, phone still pressed to her ear.

Dr. Patel began compressions, counting under his breath. Lester knelt at Catherine's head, trying to remember the proper technique for rescue breathing. The smell of her perfume—something expensive and floral—mixed with the lingering sweetness of pastries, creating a nauseating combination.

Catherine's lips had taken on a bluish tinge. Her eyes remained open, staring at the recessed lighting in the ceiling without seeing.

"This doesn't make sense," Marianne said, her voice trembling. "She was fine five minutes ago. She was eating that apple Danish and drinking coffee and then—"

"It looks like anaphylaxis," Dr. Patel said between compressions. "Severe allergic reaction. But she's never mentioned food allergies in her medical disclosures."

"Could it be something else?" Hammond asked, hovering nearby, his authority useless in this situation. "A heart attack?"

"At forty-four?" Lester shook his head. "She runs marathons."

Lester tried to calculate how long it would take paramedics to reach them. It took four minutes to arrive, another minute for the elevator. Even at top speed, that was at least five more minutes. Looking at Catherine's motionless form, he wondered if they had that much time.

Dr. Patel continued CPR, his suit jacket discarded, sweat beading on his forehead despite the room's perfect temperature. Lester attempted rescue breaths when instructed, trying not to think about the cold stillness of Catherine's skin, or how her body seemed to be accepting their efforts with complete indifference.

The other board members had backed away, forming a loose circle around the scene. Some stared in horror. Others looked at their shoes, the walls, their phones—anywhere but at the woman dying on their boardroom floor.

It felt like an eternity had passed when the door burst open as paramedics finally arrived, equipment in hand. They moved with practiced efficiency, taking over from Dr. Patel, attaching monitors, inserting an IV, intubating.

Lester backed away, joining the ring of stunned observers. The medical jargon of the paramedics faded to background noise as he stared at Catherine's face, now obscured by an oxygen mask. Just thirty minutes ago, she'd been reviewing marketing materials, sipping coffee, making a joke about the CFO's terrible taste in ties.

"Is she going to make it?" Hammond asked one of the paramedics, his voice uncharacteristically small.

The paramedic's non-answer as they loaded Catherine onto a stretcher told Lester everything he needed to know.

Lester found himself staring at Catherine's vacant seat, wondering with sudden, chilling clarity if there was a connection between what had just happened to her and what had happened to Dr. Mitchell. It unnerved him, set a block of ice in his gut. And before he knew it, he felt so dizzy that he collapsed into the closest chair.

CHAPTER FOUR

The call had come in while Addison was reviewing toxicology reports from an unrelated case. The interruption had been a welcome one—staring at chemical analyses for signs of fentanyl poisoning wasn't exactly stimulating work. Especially not when she would much rather be actively working on the Fearmonger case. Javier had appeared at her office door, his expression a mixture of urgency and something else she couldn't quite place.

"We've got a situation at Helix Pharmaceuticals," he'd said. "Executive died during a board meeting about an hour ago. Catherine Lawson, forty-four years of age, dead from an apparent allergic reaction."

Addison had started to ask why this required FBI involvement until the location rang a few bells in her memory. Helix. The same company where a research lead had died just two or three days before. She and Javier had not been assigned the case, but they’d heard about it through other agents. The man, a Dr. Mitchell if she remembered correctly, had died in a lab after hours, also from apparent anaphylaxis.

Now, as they rode the elevator to the twelfth floor of the Helix building, Addison couldn't help but feel frustrated.

"I still don't understand why we're being called to what amounts to a medical emergency," she muttered quietly even though she and Javier were the only ones on the elevator. "Since when does the FBI investigate allergic reactions?"

Javier gave her a sidelong glance. "You know good and well it's because there was another similar death at a Helix medical lab just two nights ago. That makes this suspicious."

"Yes, I know that," Addison sighed. "Just let me have a minute to be salty about not working on the Fearmonger case right now. Is that too much to ask?"

A small smile played at the corner of Javier's mouth. "Still bitter about yesterday's meeting, I take it?"

"Wouldn't you be? I hand them Fearmonger's method on a silver platter and get patted on the head and sent back to my desk."

"You did tell me all about it last night," Javier reminded her. "At length. Multiple times. But the way the night ended made it very much worth it."

Addison felt her cheeks warm slightly. He'd come over and had stayed the night. She'd vented for most of the night, and though they'd turned the lights out without getting physical, her body seemed to respond differently around midnight or so, and they'd had a particularly surprising and amazing toss between the sheets.

"And don’t you forget it,” she said, lightly slapping him on the butt.

The elevator doors slid open, revealing a corridor bustling with activity. Local police, forensic technicians, and distressed-looking corporate types moved between rooms with the controlled chaos typical of an unexpected death.

"Besides," Javier said quietly as they stepped out, "maybe this will turn out to be connected to something bigger. You never know."

"Don't patronize me," Addison replied, but there was no real bite to her words. She knew how the majority of these medical-oriented cases tended to turn out. The answer was never quite as simple as it seemed at first.

A uniformed officer met them a few steps away from the elevator and waved them in the direction main boardroom at the end of the hall. The space was impressive, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of Seattle; the Space Needle was visible in the distance through rain-streaked glass. At the center stood a massive oval table that could easily seat two dozen, its polished surface reflecting the recessed lighting above.

Catherine Lawson's body had already been removed, but the evidence of emergency response remained. Discarded medical packaging, a toppled chair, an abandoned coffee cup with lipstick on the rim.

The CEO of Helix Pharmaceuticals, Richard Hammond, stood near the head of the table, speaking with a detective. He looked up as Addison and Javier entered, breaking off his conversation mid-sentence.

"FBI?" he asked, straightening his already impeccable tie.

Javier nodded, presenting his credentials. "Special Agent Esposito, and this is my partner, Agent Shine.”

"Richard Hammond." He shook their hands with the firm grip of someone who'd built a career on decisive action. "This is... unprecedented. Catherine was in perfect health. One minute she was reviewing quarterly reports, the next..."

“Any allergies that you know of?”

"The only one any of us were aware of was a shellfish allergy?" Hammond said.

Addison glanced to the pastry and coffee table set up in the back. No shellfish there, for sure. She even kept her eyes open for bagels which people often put lox on, but there was nothing like that.

“What did she have to eat?” Javier asked. “Does anyone know?”

“Just an apple Danish.”

One of the police officers, a middle-aged woman with short-cropped hair, approached. "We've already done preliminary tests on all food items," she said. "No trace of shellfish or shellfish protein detected. Nothing obvious that would trigger anaphylaxis."

"Were there any other incidents before Ms. Lawson's collapse?" Addison asked, moving toward the area where the body had been found, marked now with tape on the carpet. "Anyone else feeling ill? Problems with the ventilation system?"

"Nothing," Hammond said. "It was a normal meeting until it wasn't. Catherine was reviewing marketing projections for Allergene, our new antihistamine drug, ironically enough. She seemed fine, then suddenly got to her feet and said she needed water. And then it was….well, it seemed instant. She was fine one moment and on the floor the next…I’d say there was maybe ten seconds between her standing and falling. Maybe fifteen at most.”

Addison knelt to examine the floor, though she didn't expect to find anything forensics had missed. "And Dr. Mitchell? I understand he died under similar circumstances?"

A shadow passed over Hammond's face. "Yes. Found in his lab two nights ago. Also apparent is anaphylaxis. No known allergies in his case, though." Then, as if to himself, he said: "Not a single one."

"Were they working together on anything by any chance?" Javier asked.

"Mitchell was our lead researcher on Allergene. Catherine headed the marketing rollout. So yes, they collaborated, but not exclusively. They worked with dozens of other people too."

Addison stood, her eyes locked on Hammond now. "I'd like to see Dr. Mitchell's lab."

Hammond hesitated. "It's still considered a crime scene."

"That's why I need to see it," Addison replied. "Two similar deaths at the same company within days of each other can't be coincidental. I need to understand both environments."

After a moment's consideration, Hammond nodded. "I'll have someone escort you. Agent Esposito, would you like to continue here, or...?"

"I'll stay and finish gathering statements," Javier said, with a glance toward Addison.

Hammond summoned a young intern who looked barely out of college. She’d been hovering around the doorway the entire time, as if stepping inside might contaminate her somehow. "Bailey will take you to the research wing, Dr. Shine."

The intern led Addison through a maze of corridors and security checkpoints, requiring keycards at almost every turn. After taking the elevator down to the third floor, the corporate aesthetic of the executive floor gradually gave way to a more utilitarian design—the functional space of scientific research.

"Did you know Dr. Mitchell?" Addison asked as they walked.

Bailey shook her head. "Not really. I'm in corporate communications, so I don't come to this part of the building much. But everyone knew who he was. Brilliant scientist. Kind of a legend around here."

"What about Catherine Lawson?"

"I worked with her directly sometimes. She was... intense. Demanding but fair." Bailey swiped her card at another checkpoint. "If I’m being honest, I’m still sort of trying to process what happened. It doesn’t seem real."

They reached a set of double doors marked "Advanced Research Division." Beyond them lay a corridor of laboratories with glass walls, allowing visibility while maintaining separation. Most bustled with white-coated researchers, but one sat dark and empty, sealed with police tape.

"That's Dr. Mitchell's lab," Bailey said, stopping a respectful distance away.

Addison approached slowly, studying the space through the glass. Unlike the sterile, uniform labs surrounding it, Mitchell's workspace had a distinct personality. Molecular models hung from the ceiling. Personal photos decorated one wall. A vintage record player sat in the corner. It was both professional and cozy at the same time—a difficult pairing to get right.

"Was the lab like this when he was found?" Addison asked.

"Yes. Nothing's been touched. The police said to leave everything as is after they finished their initial investigation."

Addison noted the details: a knocked-over stack of journals, cabinet doors left open, a chair overturned. Signs of Mitchell's desperate search for relief as his airways closed. Exactly the kind of panicked response she'd expect from someone in the throes of anaphylaxis.

"Do you know if he was working late often?" Addison asked.

"Almost every night for the past week or so, from what I heard. The Allergene project was in its final approval stages."

Addison's eyes narrowed. "Allergene? The same product Catherine Lawson was presenting this morning?"

"Yes. It's a big deal for the company. Revolutionary antihistamine formula. Supposed to hit the market next quarter." She shrugged and said, lower, “Supposed to…”

Something clicked in Addison's mind, but it was too nebulous to really give any thought or form to yet. She needed more information, so she stashed it away for later.

"I'd like to see Mitchell's records. Research notes, meeting minutes, anything that might tell me what he was working on just before his death."

Bailey shifted uncomfortably. "I don't have clearance for that. You'd need to talk to Dr. Roland Weber. He's on the medical ethics board and has taken over oversight of Mitchell's projects."

Addison made a mental note of the name. "I'll do that. For now, is there any way I can get into the lab? I just want to look around."

"I can check with security," Bailey offered, pulling out her phone.

While the intern made her call, Addison studied the scene again. Two deaths by apparent anaphylaxis. Both victims connected to the same pharmaceutical project—an antihistamine drug, no less. Both with evidence of sudden onset and rapid progression. One with a known allergy but no exposure to the allergen, one with no known allergies at all.

It painted a disturbing picture, but Addison wasn't ready to call it murder. Not yet. The medical examiner in her demanded concrete evidence, not just circumstantial connections.

"Security says it's okay if you just look," Bailey said, returning. "But don't touch anything. They'll send someone down to let you in."

Bailey walked to the door and typed a code into a small keypad—a code Addison assumed she’d just gotten from security. The door opened with a slight hydraulic whisper and Addison stepped into Mitchell's lab. The space felt oddly personal for a scientific workplace, as if Mitchell had tried to create a home within the sterile confines of corporate research.

She moved carefully around the room, examining without disturbing. The fallen stack of journals near the first aid cabinet. The open drawers where Mitchell had presumably searched for an EpiPen or antihistamine. The computer screen is still illuminated with a molecular model rotating slowly in 3D.

Addison leaned in to study the model, careful not to touch the keyboard. The structure appeared to be some kind of protein compound, complex and unfamiliar. Without more context, she couldn't determine its significance. She knew quite a lot, but this was way over her head.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Javier: Finished here. Learn anything?

Maybe. Need to see autopsy results, she typed back.

Meeting you at elevator in 10.

Addison took one final look around the lab. Something about this felt wrong. Not just the suspicious coincidence of two similar deaths, but something more fundamental. If these were murders, the killer had used the victims' own expertise against them—a pharmaceutical executive and researcher killed by what appeared to be an allergic reaction, while working on an antihistamine drug.

There was a cruel irony to it all that made her stomach turn.

If someone could induce anaphylaxis at will with no trace of a common allergen, Addison feared they were looking at a very sophisticated killer. And given the size and scope of Helix, she doubted he was done. Not by a long shot.

CHAPTER FIVE

The county medical examiner's facility maintained a perfect sixty-five degrees—cold enough to slow decomposition, warm enough for the living to work comfortably. Addison had always appreciated the balance, though today she barely noticed the temperature as she focused on Catherine Lawson's body.

"Tracheal swelling consistent with anaphylactic response," she noted, speaking into the overhead recorder while the county ME, Dr. Phelps, made his own observations across the table.

"Agreed," Phelps said. He was in his sixties, with steady hands that belied his age and a methodical approach Addison respected. "Though I'm not seeing the typical pattern of mucosal inflammation I'd expect."

Addison nodded, adjusting the overhead lamp for a better view. She knew Javier was a few rooms away, digging through records and Helix employee files, hunting for connections between Mitchell and Lawson beyond their obvious professional relationship. The thought comforted her—they were approaching this from both ends, medical and investigative. They worked great together as a team but she also understood the value in splitting up when the moment called for it. He’d be quite useless in the observation room.

"The inflammation appears concentrated primarily in the upper respiratory tract," she observed, "rather than distributed throughout the system as we typically see in severe allergic responses."

Dr. Phelps frowned. "Unusual, certainly. More focal than I'd expect."

Addison carefully extracted tissue samples from the trachea and bronchi, placing them in labeled containers. "We should compare these with Mitchell's samples. If there's a pattern..."

"You're thinking these deaths are connected?" Phelps asked, looking up from his work.

"Two executives from the same pharmaceutical company dying from anaphylaxis within days of each other? It's either an extraordinary coincidence or there's a connection we're missing."

Phelps nodded thoughtfully but there was no real surprise there; he’d apparently also given this some consideration. "Mitchell's autopsy was rushed. County was short-staffed, and with no obvious signs of foul play, it was treated as a medical emergency rather than a potential homicide."

"That's why I want to re-examine everything," Addison said. "Could you pass me the forceps?"

As she worked, Addison's mind cataloged the abnormalities. The inflammation pattern in Lawson's tissues appeared almost selective—certain cell groups were severely affected, while adjacent tissues showed minimal response. It contradicted what she knew about systemic allergic reactions, which typically triggered widespread responses throughout the body. She was no expert in the area by any means, but she knew enough to tell when something was off.

"Look at this," she said, indicating an area of intense tissue damage in the larynx. "The cell degradation is concentrated here, but the surrounding tissue is relatively unaffected."

Phelps leaned in, adjusting his glasses. "Almost like a targeted response rather than systemic. I've never seen an allergic reaction present quite this way."

"Neither have I," Addison admitted, "and I've autopsied a handful of anaphylaxis victims in the past."

She thought back to her work on the Fearmonger case—how she'd identified a thallium-like toxin that left minimal trace evidence. Could this be something similar? A sophisticated compound designed to mimic natural causes while delivering a targeted attack?

"We need to run comprehensive toxicology," she said. "Not just the standard panel, but focused screens for unusual compounds, particularly those that might interact with histamine receptors."

"You're thinking poison?" Phelps asked.

"I'm thinking we can't rule anything out," Addison replied carefully. "Especially given the victims' connection to pharmaceutical research."

They continued the examination, Addison paying particular attention to the lungs and digestive tract—common entry points for allergens and toxins. The digestive system showed no significant abnormalities, further contradicting the profile of food-triggered anaphylaxis. As she worked, she realized that she’d felt more like a medical examiner this week than an agent. There was a small sort of joy in it, born from nostalgia of her earlier career. But she also had to admit to herself that she’d much rather be out in the field, actively pounding the pavement as the saying went.

"If this was shellfish-induced, I'd expect to see more significant gastrointestinal involvement," she noted.

"Agreed," Phelps said. "And the absence of skin presentation is peculiar as well. Most severe allergic reactions present with urticaria, flushing, or angioedema."

Addison nodded, recalling witness statements that Lawson's face had appeared red and splotchy. "One witness had described facial flushing, but it's not consistent with classic histamine-mediated cutaneous response."

She carefully extracted blood samples from various sites, ensuring they had sufficient material for extensive testing. Whatever had killed Catherine Lawson had acted quickly and efficiently, leaving behind tissue damage that mimicked allergic response while deviating from expected patterns.

"I want to take a closer look at the cellular structure," Addison said, preparing microscope slides with tissue samples. "I have a theory….sort of."

She worked in silence for several minutes, preparing and examining the samples. The cellular damage was revealing—mast cells appeared to have degranulated massively, releasing their inflammatory contents, but the pattern was unlike anything she'd seen in natural allergic responses.

"Dr. Phelps, have you ever seen mast cell degranulation this extensive in the absence of a known allergen?"

The older doctor examined the slide. "No, not quite. This level of degranulation usually requires significant exposure to a potent allergen."

"But testing showed no shellfish proteins or other common allergens," Addison pointed out. "So what triggered this response?"

She stepped back from the microscope, mentally assembling the pieces. The concentrated inflammation, the unusual cellular response, the absence of an identifiable allergen…it all suggested something manufactured rather than natural.

"I think we're looking at a synthetic compound," she said finally. "Something designed to trigger massive histamine release in specific tissue groups."

"A designer toxin?" Phelps looked skeptical. "That would require significant pharmaceutical knowledge."

"Which both victims had access to," Addison noted. "They were working on an antihistamine drug. They understood the mechanisms of histamine response intimately."

"You think someone turned their research against them? Used their own knowledge of allergic responses to create something that would kill them this way?" It sounded almost conspiratorial the way he said it, but he was pretty close to what she’d been considering.

"I think it's a possibility we need to investigate. The specificity of the tissue damage suggests something precisely engineered rather than a random allergic reaction." She gathered additional samples, cataloging each with meticulous care. “Still…let's not jump to conclusions about homicide. But I do want to classify these deaths as highly suspicious pending further toxicological analysis."

Phelps nodded. "I'll expedite the testing and make sure Mitchell's samples are included for comparison."

Addison glanced at the clock. They'd been working for nearly three hours. Javier would probably be waiting for her update by now.

"I need to consult with Agent Esposito," she said as she stepped back, removing her gloves and gown. "Can you finish here?"

"Of course. I'll call as soon as I have the preliminary tox results.”

She gave him a nod of thanks and walked to the sink to wash her hands. She'd wrapped up her medical examiner duty, and now it was time to try to slip right back into the role of an agent. She was typically very good at doing this but with the specter of Fearmonger hovering above her, she still wasn't sure which role she preferred.

She left the examination room, hoping Javier would also have some new answers—and ones that might bring them closer to finding their killer.

CHAPTER SIX

Addison pushed through the double doors that led to the small office space in the back of the medical examiner's building. Her shoulders ached from hunching over Catherine Lawson's body for the past three hours. The autopsy hadn't been particularly complex, but the implications weighed on her like a physical burden.

Javier looked up from his laptop as she entered, the slight glaze to his eyes suggesting he'd been digging deep into research since the entire time. A coffee cup sat beside him, a reminder that Addison could really go for a cup, too. But what else was new?

"You look like I feel," she said, dropping into the chair across from him.

"That bad, huh?" Javier cracked a tired smile. "Find anything interesting?"

Addison ran a hand through her hair, which had escaped its ponytail during the autopsy. She sat down and shrugged in an almost defensive manner. "Beyond interesting, actually. The tissue sample findings confirm my suspicions. This is no ordinary anaphylactic reaction. Neither of the deaths, actually."

She pulled out her phone and brought up the digital microscopy images she'd captured while toiling away. "Look at the histamine response pattern. In normal anaphylaxis, you'd see a systemic reaction—widespread inflammation following predictable patterns through the vascular system."

Javier leaned forward, squinting at the images. “You know I have no idea what I’m looking at, right?”

"Yeah, I know. What it boils down to is that it's like someone designed a compound that triggers only certain histamine receptors while leaving others untouched."

"That's possible?" Javier asked.

"Theoretically? Yes. Practically? It would take someone with advanced knowledge of immunology and an exceptionally well-equipped lab." Addison swiped through more images. "Whatever this is, it's sophisticated. And deliberate."

"So we're definitely looking at murder," Javier said, his voice dropping despite them being alone in the room.

"Two murders…Though I still hesitate to fully go there." Addison corrected. "Same method, same company, and now we know—same project." She set her phone down and said, "But saying it all out loud like that…yeah, it looks like murder. So…what about you? What did you find?"

Javier turned his laptop toward her. "I dug into Mitchell and Lawson's connections beyond Helix. There's one that was fairly simple to make, considering their manner of death."

"Allergene," Addison said.

"Exactly. Mitchell was the lead researcher on Allergene, which was supposed to be a revolutionary allergy medication." Javier pulled up a series of internal documents he'd accessed. "The drug was halted after multiple deaths in clinical trials."

"And Catherine Lawson was overseeing marketing…" Addison pointed out.

Javier nodded. "Helix was jumping the gun, trying to rush it to market until the deaths occurred. They'd already started preliminary marketing campaigns, focus groups, the works. It seemed to be a sure thing that they’d get it out as planned."

"The deaths in the clinical trials…they wrote them off as 'severe allergic reaction,' didn't they?" Addison didn't need to see the documentation to know the answer.

"Got it in one." Javier pushed a few papers across the desk. "Three participants died during phase three trials. All listed as having suffered 'unexpected severe allergic reactions to the medication.' It seemed to come out of absolutely nowhere, and it happened quickly."

Addison considered this. "Deaths in clinical trials aren't as uncommon as people might think."

"I was just reading about that," Javier said, bringing up another browser tab. "That's why a lot of those prescription drug commercials on TV have to include the side effect of 'in some rare cases, death.'"

Addison nodded. "The information is usually hard to find.”

“The paper I was just reading said that the number of deaths in clinical trials is generally very hushed, especially here in the US. One estimate claims that almost two hundred thousand people have died in clinical trials in about forty years or so. But it would be very difficult to substantiate that number."

“But this one would be different from all of those,” Addison said.

“Why’s that?”

"Because with Helix, the deaths caused them to cease development of the drug rather than released it with a warning. Like I bet every single one of the examples you were reading about did." Addison tapped her fingers on the desk. "That suggests something more serious than just the standard acceptable risk."

"Something they wanted buried," Javier added.

"Exactly." Addison stood and began pacing the small office. It was barely ten feet across, but the movement helped her think. "A revolutionary allergy medication that causes fatal allergic reactions. That's more than just an unfortunate side effect—it's a fundamental failure of the drug's purpose."

"And now someone's using a compound that mimics allergic reactions to kill the people associated with Allergene," Javier said, connecting the dots. "It's personal."

"Revenge," Addison stopped pacing. "Someone connected to those trial deaths, maybe?"

"Could be," Javier said. "Or maybe a family member of one of the victims? Or a whistleblower who tried to stop the trials and was ignored?"

Addison returned to her chair. "We need a list of everyone associated with Allergene's development, approval, and marketing. And we need the names of those trial participants who died."

"Already working on it," Javier said, typing rapidly. "The trial participant information will be harder to get—medical privacy laws—but I've put in requests through official channels."

"What else did you find on Mitchell and Lawson?"

"Mitchell joined Helix fifteen years ago, previously worked at Johns Hopkins. He specialized in immunology and allergen research. Multiple patents to his name. Lawson was hired specifically to handle the Allergene campaign about five years ago. Before that, she was at a major pharmaceutical marketing firm in Chicago."

Addison leaned forward. "Any overlap in their personal lives? Places they frequented, mutual friends outside work?"

"Nothing obvious yet. Different neighborhoods, different social circles as far as I can tell. Their connection seems purely professional—specifically Allergene."

"Which means there could be more targets," Addison concluded. "Anyone else who worked closely on the project."

"I've started compiling a list," Javier said. "So far I've identified the medical ethics board member who approved the trials, Dr. Roland Weber, and the former research director, Dr. Marcus Levinson, who left Helix after the trials were halted. He established a private practice specializing in allergy treatment."

"And Richard Hammond?" Addison asked. "As CEO, he would have had final approval on everything."

"Absolutely. He's on the list too." Javier hesitated before adding, "The killer seems methodical. Working their way up the chain of responsibility, perhaps."

"Then we need to warn these people," Addison said. "Especially if our theory about a synthetic compound is correct. Standard allergy precautions wouldn't help them. We’re going to need to head back to Helix anyway…conducting interviews with anyone who was in any way connected to the victims.”

"I'll coordinate with local PD to set up protective details once we get a firm list," Javier said. "But first, we need to confirm our theory about the deaths being murders. Have you classified Lawson's death officially?"

"As suspicious, pending further toxicological analysis." Addison sighed. "The problem is, I don't know exactly what compound I'm looking for. It could take days to isolate it—days these potential targets don't have."

"What about checking for similar cases nationwide?" Javier suggested. "If this synthetic compound exists, maybe it's been used before."

"Good idea," Addison said, “but that would take a very long time. I could still put the request in, all the same.”

The office fell quiet for a moment as they both worked their separate angles. Addison glanced up at Javier, appreciating not for the first time how seamlessly they worked together. Their personal relationship hadn't compromised their professional one; if anything, it had enhanced it. They could almost read each other's thoughts now.

"Something else is bothering me," she said finally.

"What's that?" Javier looked up from his computer.

"Why Allergene? I mean, I get that the poetic justice angle fits—killing them with allergic reactions—but why stop development of an allergy medication because of allergic reactions? That's what I can't wrap my head around. I mean, there are drugs released all the time that cause a variety of different severe reactions…many of which are allergic in nature."

"Maybe the reactions were too severe? Or maybe they weren't actually allergic reactions at all," Javier suggested. "Could they have been experiencing the same thing Mitchell and Lawson did? A targeted response that only mimics anaphylaxis?"

Addison's eyes widened slightly. "That would mean..."

"Our killer might have been involved with Allergene from the beginning," Javier finished her thought.

"Or they've somehow gotten hold of whatever compound caused those initial deaths," Addison added. "Either way, we need to get access to those clinical trial records. The real ones, not just the sanitized versions they released to the FDA."

"That won't be easy," Javier cautioned. "Corporate proprietary information, medical privacy laws..."

“I know, I know…” she said with a sigh. “Look, for now, I just need to wait for the tissue samples to come back from toxicology and give them specific parameters for what to look for. If we can identify this compound, we might be able to develop a counteragent."

“So…we’re waiting.”

“Yeah we’re waiting. But in the meantime, I say we go have some conversations with those in the know over at Helix.”

As they hurried out of the office, Addison couldn't help but think about how she'd been removed from the Fearmonger case just as she'd made a breakthrough. Now here she was, potentially uncovering another serial killer with medical knowledge. The irony wasn't lost on her. But unlike Fearmonger, this killer left a clear signature—one that had personal meaning. The question was: who had been hurt badly enough by Allergene to seek such specific revenge?

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Helix Pharmaceuticals building loomed over the Seattle skyline like a giant glass dagger stabbing into the afternoon sky. Fifteen stories of reflective panels and sharp angles made the structure seem both modern and vaguely threatening. Addison couldn't help but notice how the architecture mirrored the company's aggressive market approach—all gleaming surfaces hiding whatever lay beneath.

"I hate how pretentious it looks," Addison commented as they pulled into the visitor parking area for the second time of the day.

Javier shot her a sideways glance. "Careful. Your cynicism is showing."

"Just speaking the truth.”

They approached the main entrance, passing through revolving glass doors into a lobby that continued the exterior's theme of cold opulence. White marble floors stretched in every direction, reflecting the chandelier-like lighting fixtures that hung from a ceiling at least twenty feet high. A massive water feature dominated the center of the space, the gentle splash of falling water creating an ambient soundtrack that was probably meant to be soothing but struck Addison as wasteful. Addison felt like she’d missed most of these features when they’d come rushing into the place this morning, responding to what had happened to Lawson.

They marched toward the reception desk, where a woman in a tailored blue suit watched their approach with practiced politeness. Her eyes locked on them right away. Addison had called ahead on the ride over and managed to speak with Trevor Michaels, the CFO. He'd been surprisingly cooperative, perhaps because two prominent Helix employees dying within days of each other was bad for business. He'd agreed to set up interviews with three researchers who had worked closely with Mitchell.

"Can I help you?" the receptionist asked, her voice as polished as the lobby floor.

Addison flashed her credentials. "Special Agent Addison Shine, FBI. This is my partner, Agent Esposito. We're expected, I believe."

The woman's expression shifted slightly—a barely perceptible tightening around the eyes that suggested anxiety. "Yes, Mr. Michaels mentioned you would be coming. You're here about Dr. Mitchell and Ms. Lawson?"

"That's right," Javier confirmed. "Mr. Michaels arranged for us to speak with some of Dr. Mitchell's colleagues."

"Of course. You'll want Conference Room 3 on the fifth floor." The receptionist handed them visitor badges. "The elevator is to your right. Someone will meet you there."

The elevator whisked them upward with the same silent efficiency that characterized everything about the building. When the doors opened on the fifth floor, the décor shifted from showy to functional, still expensive, but with more emphasis on utility. The walls were lined with framed patents and awards, a visual resumé of the company's scientific achievements. Based on their earlier visit, Addison was starting to wonder if each and every floor of the place had a different aesthetic feel to it.

A young man in a lab coat was waiting by the elevator. "Agents?”

“Yeah, that’s us,” Javier said, flashing his badge and ID.

“This way, please."

The young man led them down a hallway to Conference Room 3, a professional-looking space with glass walls that looked out over the Seattle skyline. Inside, three people sat around a rectangular table, their postures betraying varying degrees of discomfort.

"These are Dr. Mitchell's primary team members," their escort explained before excusing himself.

Addison studied the trio as Javier closed the door behind them. A balding man in his fifties sat with his hands folded tightly on the table. Beside him, a woman with copper-colored hair twisted into a loose knot fidgeted with a pen. The third was younger, maybe early thirties, with thick-framed glasses and a nervous energy that manifested in constant small movements.

"Thank you for meeting with us," Addison began, taking a seat across from them. "I'm Special Agent Shine, and this is Special Agent Esposito. We're investigating the deaths of Dr. Samuel Mitchell and Catherine Lawson."

The three researchers exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them. She noted that the woman looked on the verge of tears already. It made Addison wonder if it was the most recent death, now just about six hours old, that had shaken her. How well had she known Catherine Lawson?

“Could we please get your names and your association with the victims?” Javier asked.

"I'm Dr. Nathan Wilcox," the older man said. "I was Samuel's deputy on the Allergene project." He gestured to the woman beside him. "This is Dr. Monica Ferris, our immunologist, and Dr. Brian Taylor, biochemical analysis."

Javier pulled out his phone and started typing it all down in his Notes app. "How long did each of you work with Dr. Mitchell?"

"Almost eight years," Wilcox answered.

"Six for me," Ferris added.

"Just under three," Taylor said, his voice slightly higher than Addison had expected.

"And you all worked specifically on Allergene?" Addison asked.

Wilcox nodded. "It was the lab's primary focus until the clinical trials were halted."

"Can you tell us about those trials?" Javier leaned forward slightly. "We understand there were fatalities."

The tension in the room ratcheted up several notches. Taylor glanced toward the door as if contemplating escape. Ferris's pen-twirling accelerated. There was a very palpable tension in the room.

"Three participants died during phase three trials," Wilcox confirmed stiffly. "Each of them appeared to suffer severe allergic reactions to the medication."

"Which is ironic," Addison noted, "considering Allergene was meant to prevent allergic reactions."

"That's what made it so devastating," Ferris interjected, her voice carrying a defensive edge. Addison was sure they’d hear this same line many times. "We had promising results in the first two phases. The participants who died all had severe pre-existing allergies, which is why they qualified for the trial in the first place. The assumption was that they were exposed to their allergens coincidentally while taking the medication."

"But you don't believe that," Addison said, reading between the lines.

Ferris glanced at her colleagues before responding. "There were... discrepancies in the posthumous lab work. Inconsistencies that didn't align with typical anaphylactic responses."

"Similar to what we're seeing with Mitchell and Lawson," Addison said, watching their reactions carefully.

All three researchers stiffened. Wilcox looked almost offended when he said, "What exactly are you implying?"

"We're not implying anything," Javier said smoothly. "We're gathering information. Dr. Mitchell and Ms. Lawson both died from what appeared to be anaphylactic shock, despite neither having known severe allergies. Given their connection to Allergene, we're exploring all possibilities."

Taylor fidgeted with the edge of his lab coat. "You think someone's targeting people associated with Allergene?"

"It's a possibility we're investigating," Addison said. "Which is why we need to understand exactly what happened with the project. Our research indicates it was abandoned after the trial deaths."

"Not exactly abandoned," Wilcox said carefully. "Development was suspended pending further investigation. The board decided the potential liability outweighed the projected profits."

"And how did Dr. Mitchell feel about that decision?" Javier asked.

The three researchers exchanged another look, this one more loaded than before. To Addison, it almost seemed like they were silently daring one another to be the first to talk.

"Samuel was... disappointed," Wilcox offered diplomatically.

"That's putting it mildly," Ferris snorted. "He was furious. I mean…he believed in Allergene with almost religious fervor."

"Tell us what happened after development was suspended," Addison prompted.

Taylor cleared his throat. "We were reassigned to other projects. Standard procedure when a drug fails trials."

"But Mitchell didn't let it go," Addison guessed.

"No," Wilcox admitted. "He didn't. He kept working on it in his free time. He kept saying he had identified the problem—a specific protein interaction that triggered the adverse reactions in certain genetic profiles."

"He took the medication back to formula," Ferris explained. "Redesigned it from the ground up to address the issue. Again, he was…very passionate about the project."

"And he had recently approached the board about reintroducing Allergene with modifications," Taylor added, his voice dropping to nearly a whisper. "About three weeks ago."

"How did that go?" Javier asked.

Wilcox shifted uncomfortably. "Not well. The board was divided. Some remembered the PR nightmare from the trial deaths and wanted nothing to do with resurrecting the project. They thought it would just bring that spotlight right back out."

"Lawson sided with Mitchell, though" Ferris said. "She believed in the commercial potential. She said she could spin the relaunch as a triumphant return, emphasizing the improved safety profile."

"But others voted against it," Addison concluded.

"Yes," Wilcox confirmed. "The CFO, Michaels, was particularly opposed. Said the company couldn't afford another scandal if something went wrong again."

"How did Mitchell react to the rejection?" Javier asked.

The three researchers fell silent, exchanging uncomfortable glances. Their little silences were starting to annoy Addison. It was starting to feel like the world’s laziest Three Stooges tribute.

"He didn't take it well," Taylor finally said. "Got angry. Threatened to take his formula elsewhere, said he'd been approached by competitors who recognized the value of his work."

"It was very dramatic," Ferris added. "Mitchell stood up in the middle of the meeting, pointed at Hammond-the CEO—and said, 'You're making the biggest mistake of your life. This could have saved Helix, but now it's going to sink you.'"

"So it seems that he might have been creating enemies both inside and outside the company," Addison observed.

"Potentially," Wilcox agreed reluctantly. "Though it's important to understand that in pharmaceutical development, emotions often run high. People dedicate years of their lives to these projects."

"This whole thing…all this drama,” Ferris said. "It's public knowledge within the building, but it's rarely discussed. People are uncomfortable talking about it. Mitchell was respected, even if some thought he'd gone too far."

Addison made a mental note. They needed to speak with the board members, particularly Hammond and Michaels. If Mitchell's anger had been as intense as this trio was describing, the executives might have felt threatened enough to take action.

"One more question," Addison said. "Did Mitchell keep records of his reformulation work? Notes, data, that sort of thing?"

"He must have," Wilcox said. "Samuel was meticulous about documentation. But I never saw them. He became increasingly secretive after the project was suspended. I think he had started to view it as a Me Against the World sort of deal."

Addison was about to ask about access to Mitchell's lab and computer when her phone vibrated in her pocket. She glanced at the screen, recognizing the number of the medical examiner’s office.

"Excuse me, I need to take this," she said, stepping to the corner of the conference room. Then, in a lower voice she said, "Dr. Phelps?"

"Addison, I have something you should see." Phelps's voice held an unusual urgency. "You should come quickly."

"Can you tell me what it is?"

"I'd rather show you in person. It's regarding the tissue samples from Lawson and Mitchell."

Addison's pulse quickened. "We'll be there as soon as possible."

She ended the call and turned to Javier. "We need to go. Phelps has something on the tissue samples."

Javier nodded and stood. The three people assembled at the table gave them varying looks, none of them certain whether they should be pleased about the sudden ending to this meeting.

"Thank you for your time," Javier told the researchers. "We may have more questions later, so please make sure you don’t leave the city for a few days."

As they exited the conference room, Addison's mind was already spinning with possibilities as she tried to guess what Phelps had found.

"What did Phelps say?" Javier asked as they hurried toward the elevator.

"Not much. Just that we should come quickly. And if it’s something he felt he needed to show us rather than just convey it over the phone, I'm hoping it's big." She pressed the call button with more force than necessary. "But whatever it is, it might help us understand what we're dealing with. And how many more people might be at risk?"

The elevator doors opened, and as they stepped inside, Addison suddenly felt that they were racing against a clock they couldn't yet see.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The drive back to the medical examiner's office was quiet, as both Addison and Javier were lost in their own thoughts. Seattle's perpetual drizzle created a hypnotic pattern on the windshield; it seemed to have come out of nowhere and Addison wasn’t even sure when it had started. She found her mind drifting from the case at hand to the other mystery that had defined her life.

Leslie Boyer. The name kept circling in her thoughts like a persistent ghost. A girl mentioned in Jane's diary, someone her sister had apparently been close to in the weeks before her disappearance, and someone Addison couldn't remember, despite growing up in the same neighborhood. Now Leslie was dead too. Suicide, she’d been told at just twenty-two.

What did it mean? Could Leslie have known something about Jane's disappearance? Had that knowledge somehow led to her own death years later? The timing felt too significant to be coincidental, even if the rational part of Addison's brain warned against making connections where none existed. Of course, she also knew she might be seeing patterns where there weren’t any, just so she could convince herself she was that much closer to solving Jane’s case.

"You okay?" Javier's voice cut through her thoughts. "You've been staring at raindrops for ten minutes straight."

Addison blinked, refocusing on the present. "Yeah… just trying to piece this case together," she lied.

“Does Phelps have you worried…asking us to come out to see him in person?”

Addison nodded, forcing her attention back to the case that required her immediate focus. "A bit. He sounded unusually urgent. Whatever he found must be significant."

"Let's hope it gives us something concrete to work with."

Nothing more was said until they arrived back at the ME’s office. Javier pulled into the parking lot of the medical examiner's building and looked over to her with a caring and slightly playful scowl. “Seriously….you good?”

“Yeah. Just…trying to keep a very solid line between this case and thinking about Jane.”

“You want to talk about it some more?”

She shook her head. “No. We need to focus on this before someone else connected to Allergene turns up dead."

They made their way inside and found Dr. Phelps in the main laboratory, bent over a computer terminal with an intensity that suggested breakthrough rather than frustration. He looked up as they entered, his normally placid features animated with excitement.

"Addison, Javier, good timing." He beckoned them over with a hurried flourish. "The lab results from those tissue samples came in. And Addison…you were right to be suspicious."

"What did you find?" Addison asked, moving to look over his shoulder at the screen.

"A synthetic compound in both victims' tissue samples." Phelps pointed to a molecular structure displayed on the monitor. "It's not in any standard database, which is why it didn't show up in the initial toxicology screens."

"What does it do?" Javier asked.

"In simple terms?" Phelps looked up at them. "It mimics allergic reactions but leaves no standard markers. That's why it appeared to be anaphylaxis but also had those atypical histamine response patterns you noted."

Addison studied the molecular diagram. "How does it work?"

"It targets specific histamine receptor sites in tissue groups rather than triggering a systemic reaction." Phelps pulled up another image showing cellular structures. "See these binding sites? The compound attaches here, creating a localized inflammatory response that cascades through connected systems."

"Leading to symptoms indistinguishable from anaphylaxis to the untrained eye," Addison concluded.

"Exactly." Phelps nodded. "Without the specific tissue analysis you requested, we would never have identified it. It metabolizes quickly, leaving minimal traces unless you know exactly what to look for."

"So we're definitely dealing with homicide?" Javier asked.

"Without question," Phelps confirmed. "And whoever designed this compound knew exactly what they were doing. This isn't something you could cook up in a garage lab."

"But like I said before," Addison said, "something like this would require extensive knowledge of immunology, biochemistry, and pharmaceutical development. Very likely someone connected to Allergene's development. Even as she spoke the words, their conversation with Mitchell's colleagues replayed in her mind. "This confirms it."

"How would they administer it, though?" Javier asked. "Mitchell was alone in his lab, and Lawson was in a room full of people."

"That's the truly ingenious part," Phelps said, his professional admiration at odds with the grim implications. "The compound appears to have been designed for dermal absorption. It could be applied to any surface the victim might touch—a doorknob, a coffee cup, a pen."

"Making it nearly impossible to trace the exact moment of exposure," Addison said. "And once absorbed through the skin, how quickly would it take effect?"

"Based on the tissue degradation patterns, I'd estimate somewhere between fifteen to thirty minutes. Just enough time for the perpetrator to establish an alibi or simply walk away."

Addison felt a chill run down her spine. "So we’re basically looking at calculated murder designed to look like a legitimate medical incident."

“Yes, that about sums it up,” Phelps said. "And we're dealing with someone who knows how to manipulate the human immune system at its most fundamental level. However, I have already started developing a detection protocol. If, during the case, you are able to find any potential source objects, we can test them for traces of the compound. I'm also working on identifying potential counteragents, though without knowing the complete molecular structure, it's challenging."

Addison stared at the images on the screen as the reality of what they were facing settled heavily on her shoulders. The facts were right there in front of her very eyes and there was no getting around it now. They were hunting a killer with both the knowledge and the resources to commit perfect murders.

"Can you send these results to my secure email?" she asked Phelps. "I want to review them in detail."

"Already done." Phelps handed her a printed copy of the report. "I've also flagged this with the FBI's chemical analysis division. They might be able to determine where the compound's base components could be sourced."

"Thank you," Addison said, taking the report. "We’ve already put the word out to the employees, but I think it needs to be made a higher priority. We need to warn the other people connected to Allergene. Literally anyone working there could all be targets."

"I'll contact local PD again," Javier said, already reaching for his phone and stepping toward the door. "I’ll make it clear that this needs to take priority.”

Addison nodded, then paused as another thought struck her. "Phelps, could this compound be derived from Allergene itself? A modified version of the original medication?"

He considered this for a moment, tilting his head and scratching thoughtfully at the scruff on his cheeks. "It's possible. The binding mechanisms are similar to what you'd expect from an antihistamine, just perverted to produce the opposite effect. If I had to guess, I'd say it's more likely a byproduct of the research—something discovered during development that was deemed too dangerous to pursue."

"Which means our killer might have access to Allergene's original research data," Addison said. "Mitchell kept working on the formula after the project was suspended. He must have had notes, files...but now he’s dead. And whoever killed him could have taken that information."

"Or already had it,” Phelps said.

Addison thought about what Mitchell's colleagues had told them. How he'd become secretive, how he'd threatened to take his formula to competitors. "Mitchell wasn't concerned about making enemies. He was willing to burn bridges to see his work completed."

Phelps closed the files on his computer. "I'll keep working on identifying the complete molecular structure. If I find anything else, you'll be the first to know."

"Thank you," Addison said. "In the meantime, we need to go back to Helix. Talk to Hammond and Michaels directly, get access to Mitchell's research files before they conveniently disappear."

She thanks Phelps again and joined Javier out in the hallway where he was coordinating efforts with a police sergeant. She felt the familiar weight of a case turning darker, more complex than she had initially thought. The Allergene deaths weren't just about revenge for clinical trial fatalities. There was something deeper at work—something that had led Mitchell to continue his research in secret and had ultimately gotten him killed.

The parallels to her sister's case weren't lost on her. Both involved secrets, both involved death, and both required her to dig beneath the surface to find the truth. For a moment, Leslie Boyer's face—or rather, the absence of a face she could remember—flashed in her mind again.

"One mystery at a time," she murmured to herself, echoing Javier's earlier words.

"What's that?" Javier asked as they reached the car, having just now ended his phone call.

"Nothing." Addison shook her head. "Just thinking that pharmaceutical companies spend millions on PR to present themselves as benevolent healers, but at the end of the day, they're businesses driven by profit. And where there's profit, there are almost always secrets worth killing to protect."

"You think this goes beyond one person's revenge?"

"I don't know yet." Addison climbed into the passenger seat. "But I do know that Dr. Mitchell threatened to take his formula elsewhere, and days later he was dead. That suggests someone had a very strong interest in making sure that didn't happen."

"So we're looking at potential corporate espionage on top of murder," Javier said as he started the car.

"Welcome to the intersection of medicine and money," Addison replied. "Where human lives are often just data points on a profit margin analysis."

He snickered despite the dark nature of the situation. “That’s good. You should jot that down and sell it to a company for marketing purposes.”

As they pulled away from the ME's office, Addison once again looked out into the drizzling rain. She wondered where their killer might be hiding and what their link to Allergene might be. Beyond that, though, she wondered if, on such a corporate battlefield, the answers were staring them right in the face and they just weren’t able to see it yet.

CHAPTER NINE

The basement laboratory was bathed in the sterile glow of LED lights, illuminating equipment that would have looked at home in a university research facility. Despite being hidden beneath an ordinary suburban home, this was no amateur setup. A laminar flow hood dominated one wall, its constant hum creating a comforting white noise. Beside it, a precision balance scale, capable of measuring to the nearest microgram, sat on a vibration-dampening table. Glass beakers, volumetric flasks, and a high-end microscope were meticulously arranged on gleaming steel countertops.

Years of planning had gone into this space. Every piece of equipment had been acquired separately, through different channels, none of it traceable. The ventilation system was hospital-grade, designed to prevent cross-contamination and filter out any potentially harmful particles. Temperature and humidity control maintained optimal conditions for sensitive chemical work.

The single man occupying the space had put it all together himself. He had been forced to hire a few men to help with the ventilation system but he’d paid them handsomely. And since two of the three men were illegal immigrants, he had no fear that they would blab about what they’d done here.

His gloved hands moved with practiced precision, measuring pale powder from a glass vial onto the scale. Just 12.3 milligrams—enough for one dose, with no excess to raise questions if anyone ever inspected the laboratory supplies. The powder was transferred to a beaker containing a clear solution, where it dissolved, creating a subtle shimmer in the liquid.

On the counter lay an open file—Dr. Roland Weber, sixty-two, former member of the medical ethics board that had approved Allergene's initial trials. He was now an administrator at Seattle General's research division. His employee badge photo showed a balding man with wire-rimmed glasses and a self-satisfied smile. The smile of someone who made decisions about other people's lives without ever having to face the consequences.

He filled the syringe filled slowly as it drew up the primary compound. Under the microscope, the solution appeared unremarkable—just another clear liquid indistinguishable from water to the naked eye. But its molecular structure had been carefully engineered to bond with specific receptor sites in human tissue, lying dormant until activated by the secondary compound.

A notebook lay open beside the microscope, filled with handwritten formulas and observations spanning years of research. The same research that had once promised to help people with severe allergies transformed into an instrument of justice. Poetic, really. The very science that Weber and the others had exploited for profit would now deliver their punishment.

The syringe was carefully placed in a specially designed case with a cooling element. The compound was stable, but temperature control eliminated variables. In this work, precision was everything.

Weber's schedule for today was predictable. Nine-to-five at the medical center, followed by his regular Tuesday evening at the hospital board meeting that would run until approximately 4:30 PM. After that, he would walk alone to his car in the lower level of the parking garage—the same routine every week for the past three years.

He knew very well that habits made people vulnerable. Mitchell had his late nights in the lab. Lawson had her morning meetings with her precisely timed coffee and pastry. Weber had his Tuesday evenings. All predictable. All exploitable.

The secondary trigger compound was drawn into a second, smaller syringe. This was the true breakthrough—the component that had never been documented in any of Allergene's official research. The element that Mitchell had discovered accidentally during early trials and then hidden when he realized its implications. The part that converted a potentially revolutionary antihistamine into a weapon. And of course no one would behind it would report it. Something so powerful…well, there was a lot of money in things of this nature.

Mitchell had been smart enough to recognize the danger but too ambitious to abandon the research entirely. That ambition had cost three innocent lives during the trials. Lives dismissed as acceptable losses in the pursuit of profit.

The first compound would be applied to objects Weber was certain to touch—his office door handle, the stylus he used to sign documents on the medical center's electronic system, the armrests of his chair in the board meeting room. A specialized gel carrier, nearly invisible once applied, would ensure the compound remained stable until skin contact. Weber's own body heat and natural oils would activate the absorption process, drawing the compound through the dermal layers. Because this was only the first of two steps, others who may also come into contact with the compound would be safe.

The secondary compound would be applied the same way, hours later, to Weber's car door handle in the parking garage. By then, the first compound would have fully integrated into his system, binding to cellular receptors throughout his body. The moment the second compound was absorbed through his skin, the chemical reaction would begin. Within fifteen minutes, the two elements would interact, triggering a cascading inflammatory response indistinguishable from severe anaphylaxis. By the time symptoms appeared, the perpetrator would be long gone, leaving no evidence behind except a seemingly natural, if tragic, medical emergency.

The syringes were packed carefully into a leather messenger bag, nestled between ordinary items—a notebook, a protein bar, a water bottle. Nothing that would raise suspicion if someone happened to glance inside.

Nondescript clothing was key. Dark jeans, gray button-down shirt, navy jacket—the uniform of middle management everywhere. The kind of outfit that security cameras recorded but no one remembered. A pair of glasses with clear lenses and a generic baseball cap completed the disguise.

The drive to Seattle General would take twenty-two minutes in current traffic. He knew the hospital well….knew that the hospital's staff entrance was minimally secured. More than that, he’d had a badge reader cloned weeks ago during a maintenance visit, wearing the same unremarkable outfit. Once that part was handled, he knew that the service corridors provided direct access to the administrative wing where Weber's office was located.

Justice was coming for Roland Weber. Justice for all of the trial participants whose deaths had been classified as "unfortunate side effects" and then buried under non-disclosure agreements and settlements with desperate families. Justice for the countless others who had suffered because men like Weber, Mitchell, and Hammond had valued shareholder returns over human lives.

One by one, they would experience the terror their ambition had inflicted on others. One by one, they would understand what it meant to be just another acceptable loss. It would come quickly and out of nowhere (in their eyes and minds, anyway), and that was fine with him. Knowing their final moments would be filled with terrified confusion and unbearable pain was what mattered.

His heart rate remained steady as he left his lab, prepared to head out and handle his business. His breathing was calm and measured. This wasn't about passion or anger—those emotions had burned away years ago, replaced by cold purpose and meticulous planning.

And Weber was next.

CHAPTER TEN

Addison tapped her fingers against the dashboard as Javier navigated through Seattle's later afternoon traffic. The rain was coming down a bit harder now, the wipers creating a hypnotic rhythm that matched her racing thoughts. She could tell that Javier was doing the same—that they were working together in silence, trying to come up with the next best steps now that the police were actively starting to send out units and lone officers to contact Helix employees who had at any point been connected to Allergene.

"We need to look at people who've had conflicts with Helix, even if they weren’t employees" Addison said, the idea striking her like lightning. The idea was barely out of her mouth before she reached into the back seat for her tablet. "Someone with the knowledge to create this compound and a motive to use it against multiple people connected to Allergene."

Javier nodded, his eyes fixed on the road. "Makes sense. And I’d assume the list wouldn’t be so long. Who would be involved that deeply with a product like that and be an outsider?”

"Exactly." Addison’s fingers began to tap at the screen, starting with a basic Google search. While the bureau database was infallible, a basic web search often proved to be faster for basic research. "Let's start with former employees who left under heated circumstances….or maybe who were laid off."

She pulled up Helix Pharmaceuticals' public records, then cross-referenced them with scientific publications, press releases, and news articles. Roughly seven minutes into her search, she sat up a bit straighter.

"Got something," she said, angling the tablet so Javier could glance at it when they hit a red light. "Three years ago, The Seattle Tribune ran an article about a whistleblower at Helix who raised concerns about rushed safety protocols during clinical trials. And it just so happens that this took place during the production of an unnamed anti-allergy medication."

"Allergene," Javier said.

"Has to be. The timing fits." Addison scrolled through the article. "The whistleblower wasn't named in the article, but there was a related story two weeks later about a Dr. Eliza Thornton, an immunologist who left Helix after what was described as 'irreconcilable differences regarding research protocols.'"

"That's corporate speak for 'she caused problems so we kicked her to the curb,'" Javier said. “You think we can get an address for Thornton?”

“Yeah, surely. But according to her LinkedIn profile, she now works at the University of Washington Medical Center. She's an associate professor in the Department of Immunology."

She scrolled through Thornton's social media presence. "Not much on her personal accounts. Mostly shares about immunology research, a few conference photos... wait." She focused on a post from eight months ago. "She shared an article about pharmaceutical companies burying adverse trial results with the comment: 'Some things never change. Lives lost for profit margins.'"

"Sounds like she's still bitter," Javier said.

"Wouldn't you be? If she genuinely believed Helix was covering up deaths and they fired her for speaking up?" Addison continued scanning through posts. "Let's pay Dr. Thornton a visit. Take us to University of Washington Medical Center."

“Yes, ma’am.”

Now with a new destination in mind, their sense of urgency had returned. Javier kicked the speed up a bit, the rain now pelting at the windshield. Addison continued to search for more details about Thornton but all there was to see from her social media accounts were a few book recommendations and pictures of scenery from vacations at the beach.

Thirty minutes later, they arrived at the University of Washington Medical Center. The sprawling campus bustled with activity as students and staff hurried through the rain between buildings. Using a map of the campus Addison had already found online, she and Javier hurried along through a small breezeway and then out into open space where they, too, were hit with the rain for a minute or so before finally coming to the Department of Immunology.

Inside, they approached a young man sitting at the reception desk, his attention focused on his computer screen. He looked up and offered an apologetic smile. “Looks like you guys got caught out in the rain, huh?”

“Sure did,” Addison said, because it was nicer than the first comment that came to her tongue. She then showed her FBI credentials. "We're looking for Dr. Eliza Thornton."

The assistant’s eyes grew wide with concern and he actually got to his feet. "Oh! FBI? Is something wrong?"

"No, we just need to ask her a few questions," Javier said smoothly. "Is she available?"

"She's not in her office today. She's working in the medical library, researching for a paper from what I gather." He pointed through a window toward a large building across a small courtyard. "Third floor, east wing. Can't miss it."

"Thank you," Addison said, already heading for the door.

They jogged through the rain to the library building, their shoes squeaking on the polished floor of the lobby. Inside, the library was quiet, the hushed atmosphere broken only by the occasional sound of turning pages and soft typing. The patter of rain sounded like a lullaby in the silence of it all.

In the east wing, they found a woman sitting alone at a table surrounded by open books and medical journals. Her dark hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and she wore glasses that she pushed up absently as she made notes on her laptop. Several.

“She’s the only one I’ve seen deeply entrenched in reading,” Addison whispered to Javier. “And those journals…she’s not reading them for pleasure. I bet that’s her.”

Javier gestured her forward as if to say Well, go find out.

Addison approached the table, keeping her voice low as she said, "Dr. Thornton?"

The woman looked up, her expression curious but not alarmed. "Yes?"

Addison showed their credentials subtly, keeping them low as she took yet another step closer to the table. "I'm Special Agent Addison Shine, and this is Special Agent Javier Esposito. We'd like to ask you a few questions, if you have time."

Dr. Thornton sat back in her chair, removing her glasses. "FBI? What's this about?"

"It's regarding Helix Pharmaceuticals," Javier said.

Something flickered across Thornton's face—a mixture of surprise and what might have been disdain.

"Could we sit?" Addison gestured to the empty chairs.

"Of course." Thornton closed her laptop. "Though I'm not sure how I can help. I haven't worked at Helix in nearly two and a half years."

Addison settled into a chair across from her. Leaning forward and still keeping her voice low, she said: "We're investigating the deaths of Dr. Samuel Mitchell and Catherine Lawson. They’ve both died in the past three days under very strange circumstances."

"Deaths?" Thornton's eyes widened. "I heard about Sam; someone had posted about it on Facebook. But Catherine too? What happened?"

"Both died from what appeared to be severe anaphylactic reactions," Javier said. Without even seeing him, Addison could tell from his tone that he was studying her face for a reaction as he spoke.

Thornton's brow furrowed. "Anaphylaxis? That's... unexpected. And at the risk of seeming uncaring, it also seems darkly ironic, given the sort of stuff they were working on.”

"These were my thoughts, too, after I learned about Allergene,” Addison said. "But we believe the reactions were induced artificially."

"You think they were murdered?" Thornton's voice rose slightly, drawing a disapproving glance from a nearby student.

"We're exploring all possibilities," Addison said. "But that is what recent autopsy results are suggesting. We got your name because of your history with Helix. And I was hoping you could tell us about your time working there. Specifically, your work on Allergene."

Thornton tensed visibly, her fingers gripping the edge of the table. "I see. So that's what this is about."

"Should it be about something else?" Javier asked.

"No, I just..." Thornton took a deep breath, composing herself. "My departure from Helix wasn't exactly amicable. I'm sure you know that. And every now and then, something pops up to remind me of it. It’s sort of like the shadow I’ll never get out from under."

"We've read some articles about your falling out" Addison said. "We'd like to hear your version."

Thornton nodded, leaning forward. "I was part of the research team for Allergene from the beginning. It was meant to be revolutionary—a broad-spectrum antihistamine that could prevent allergic reactions before they started, rather than just treating symptoms after the fact."

"What went wrong?" Javier asked.

Thornton looked around as if to make sure they were remaining quiet enough not to draw attention to themselves. "The early trials looked promising, but when we moved to wider human trials, we started seeing unusual reactions in some participants." Thornton's voice had taken on a clinical detachment, which sounded oddly eerie coming out in whispers. "Three patients died. The official cause was listed as idiosyncratic immune response, but I wasn't convinced."

"Why not?" Addison asked.

"The pattern was wrong. I found similarities in the tissue samples that suggested a direct effect on specific histamine receptor sites that shouldn't have happened with Allergene's mechanism of action." Thornton's voice grew more animated as she spoke. "I believed there was a fundamental flaw in the formula, but when I took my concerns to management..." She stopped, giving an irritated shrug.

"They didn't listen," Javier finished for her.

"Worse. They suggested that my analysis was flawed, that I was seeing patterns that weren't there." Thornton's jaw tightened momentarily. "Sam—Dr. Mitchell—was the lead researcher. He took it personally, like I was attacking his work rather than trying to understand what was happening. He was very defensive…and I couldn’t tell if he was just being naïve or willfully ignorant."

"So you went public," Addison said.

Thornton shook her head. "Not exactly. I went up the chain of command at Helix, all the way to the board. When they still wouldn't listen, I submitted my findings to the FDA. That's when Helix terminated me."

"For whistleblowing," Javier said.

"Yes. Although, they labelled it unauthorized disclosure of proprietary information," Thornton corrected bitterly. "The FDA investigation was inconclusive. Helix halted the trials, but they made sure my reputation took a hit. They got pretty nasty with it. I mean…it took me almost a year to find this position."

Addison considered this for a moment, understanding how such a tactic could anger someone…and wondering if it might drive them to take drastic measures. "Dr. Thornton, when was the last time you saw or spoke with Dr. Mitchell?"

The question seemed to catch Thornton off guard. "I... about three weeks ago, actually.” Her eyes seemed to glaze over for a moment as she understood the potential relevance. “He contacted me out of the blue, wanted to meet for coffee."

"What did you discuss?" Addison asked, feeling a slowly rising ebb of tension at the table.

"He told me they were considering restarting the Allergene project. Said he'd made modifications to the formula that addressed the issues I'd raised." Thornton frowned. “He didn’t come out and ask if I wanted in on it…but it was implied.”

“What did you tell him?” Javier asked.

 "I told him he was making a mistake…that Allergene was fundamentally flawed."

"How did he take that?" Javier asked.

"Not well. Sam always had an ego. He insisted his new formula was correct, that the previous problems had been eliminated." Thornton crossed her arms. "We parted on... tense terms. He was pretty much yelling at me before he hung up."

"And Catherine Lawson? When did you last speak with her?" Addison asked.

"I haven't seen Catherine since I left Helix. We were never close."

Addison studied Thornton closely, noting the slight tension in her shoulders. She looked to be slightly offended that they were here speaking with her, that she knew she was being treated as a potential suspect, even if only slightly. "Dr. Thornton, are you familiar with synthetic compounds that could mimic anaphylaxis?"

Thornton's eyebrows rose a bit. "Theoretically, yes. Any immunologist with a background in pharmacology would be. Are you suggesting—" She stopped abruptly, her expression hardening. "Wait. You think I had something to do with their deaths?"

"We're just gathering information," Javier said smoothly.

"No, you're not." Thornton stood up, her chair scraping loudly on the floor. "You're looking at me as a suspect because I had a conflict with Helix and happened to have a conversation with Sam recently. That's circumstantial at best…and it seems you weren’t even aware of it until I just told you."

"No one's accusing you of anything," Addison said, rising as well. She noted that a few people at a nearby table had taken notice of the altercation but were doing their best not to show interest. "But you do have the expertise to create such a compound, and you had significant problems with both the company and Dr. Mitchell personally."

"So did dozens of other researchers! The entire Allergene team fell apart after the trials were halted. People's careers were damaged." Thornton's voice rose, drawing more stares from around the library.

"Dr. Thornton," Addison said, trying to de-escalate, "we're investigating all possible angles. Your insight into Allergene is valuable—"

"Save it," Thornton cut her off. "I cooperated. I answered your questions. But I did not kill anyone, and I resent the implication. If you want to talk to me again, you can contact my lawyer."

Before Addison could respond, her phone rang. She glanced at the screen, finding it nothing more than an irritation at first. But then she saw that it was Loomis. She quickly stepped into the stacks, shielding herself away from prying eyes and ears. Javier followed behind her and she answered on the third ring.

“This is Shine,” she answered.

"Agent Shine, we have another one," Loomis said without preamble. "Dr. Roland Weber was found dead about twenty minutes ago. Looks like he may have had some sort of allergic reaction while in his car. No solid connection, but...Seattle PD is securing the scene. They've been told to expect you."

A chill ran through Addison. "We’re on it. Thanks."

"We'll be right there." Addison ended the call and turned back to find Thornton and Javier in the midst of a tense silence.

"We need to go," she told Javier, then looked back to the table where they had been sitting. She wasn’t surprised to see that Dr. Thornton had already taken her leave. Not that it mattered for now. She’d been right there with them and, more than that, in the library long enough for the receptionist to know. It was very unlikely she was their killer.

As they hurried from the library, Javier glanced at Addison as they stepped back outside. "What's happened?"

"Roland Weber is dead. Same apparent cause." Addison picked up her pace. "That's three people connected to Allergene."

"And our suspect was sitting right in front of us the entire time," Javier said under his breath.

Addison shook her head. "Maybe. She's got the knowledge and motive, but something doesn't feel right. She seemed genuinely surprised about the deaths. And the timeline of this afternoon pretty much paints her an alibi."

She glanced back once at the library as they hurried back through the rainy campus. Dr. Thornton was standing under the large awning, watching them leave with a disappointed scowl. She then opened up an umbrella and started walking in the opposite direction, another piece of this case that had slipped away.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Seattle rain had given them a temporary reprieve as Addison and Javier raced toward Seattle General Hospital. Slate-colored clouds still hung heavy in the sky, but the downpour had ceased, leaving the streets slick and reflective in the approaching dusk. They had just missed the busy core of afternoon traffic as dusk began to slowly settle over the city.

"Weber was on my primary list of people who needed to be warned," Javier said, taking a corner faster than regulations allowed. "He was the ethics board member who approved the initial Allergene trials. Apparently, no one reached him…or he failed to heed the warnings."

Addison gripped the dashboard. "Three victims, all connected to Allergene. We're dealing with someone executing a very specific hit list."

She knew this should be reassuring…that it basically gave them the same list the killer was working from. But she had seen this same scenario play out before and she knew it wasn’t always that easy.

They pulled into Seattle General's sprawling complex and followed the signs for the main parking structure. Red and blue lights flashed at the entrance, reflecting off the wet concrete pillars. Two patrol cars and an unmarked detective vehicle blocked the access lane, forcing them to park in the ambulance bay.

Addison flashed her credentials to hospital security as they approached the scene. A uniformed officer lifted the yellow crime scene tape just beyond them to let them pass.

"Where's the victim?" Addison asked, surveying the garage.

The officer pointed toward up. "Second level, in the far corner. Detective Ramirez is already up there."

They took the stairs two at a time. The parking garage was dimly lit, overhead fluorescents spaced too far apart to provide adequate illumination. The air smelled of concrete dust, the rubber of tires, and exhaust. Their footsteps echoed as they reached the second level, where another police car was present.

In the far corner, a silver Audi had collided with two parked cars—a Honda Civic and a Subaru Outback. The impact hadn't been severe; the Audi's front end was crumpled, but the airbags hadn't deployed. The other vehicles showed minimal damage, suggesting the collision had occurred at low speed.

Detective Elsa Ramirez, a veteran of Seattle PD's homicide division whom Addison had interacted with a few times, stood beside the Audi. She was dictating notes into a handheld recorder. She nodded as they approached.

"Agents,” she said with a nod. “I got here as fast as I could when I heard the circumstances. Was told pretty much right away that you two would want to be involved."

"What do we have?" Javier asked.

"Dr. Roland Weber, fifty-eight years of age, found dead behind the wheel approximately ninety minutes ago. A security guard heard the collision and found him already deceased when he got to the car." Ramirez gestured to the vehicle. "Preliminary cause appears to be anaphylactic shock, just like your other victims. I doubt the crash was the cause. He couldn’t have been going any faster than ten miles per hour."

Addison pulled on latex gloves and approached the driver's side door, which stood open. Dr. Weber remained in the driver's seat, his skin pale with patches of reddish hives visible on his neck and what she could see of his chest beneath his open collar. His lips and eyelids were slightly swollen, and the bloating was consistent with a severe allergic reaction—just like their other two victims.

"Time of death?" she asked.

"ME's initial estimate puts it between 5:15 and 5:20 PM," Ramirez replied. "Security footage shows him entering the garage at 5:13, and the collision was reported at 5:22."

Addison leaned in closer, careful not to touch anything. "Any signs of an EpiPen or allergy medication?"

"Nothing visible in the vehicle. No medications in his pockets, car console or glove compartment."

"Did he have known allergies?" Javier asked.

Ramirez consulted her notes. "According to his colleague, there was a mild peanut allergy, but nothing that had caused severe reactions before. I’ve got an officer speaking with his wife right now but, as you can imagine, getting information out of her might take some time."

Addison circled the vehicle. The Audi had drifted into the parked cars at what must have been little more than walking speed, as Ramirez had suggested. Weber had likely been incapacitated by the anaphylaxis before the collision occurred.

"We need to check his hands and anywhere else he might have had skin contact with something," she said, more to herself than the others. "Our toxin is absorbed dermally."

"There's something else you should know," Ramirez said, her expression grim. "We received your warning call about potential targets from Helix Pharmaceuticals. One of my officers tried contacting Weber twice in the last two hours."

Javier frowned. "No answer?"

"Went straight to voicemail both times," Ramirez confirmed. "By the time we dispatched someone to find him in person, it was too late. That same colleague I spoke to said it was likely because he’d been in a meeting for the last two hours of the day."

Addison felt the familiar knot in her stomach that came with preventable deaths. "We were so close."

They heard the mechanical whine of the parking garage elevator. Moments later, a team from the Medical Examiner's office emerged, pushing a gurney with a body bag on top of it. She didn’t see Phelps, which she assumed meant he was still back at the office, going over further results and readings from the other two victims.

"Dr. Phelps sent us," one of the techs said as they approached. "Said you'd want to expedite the examination."

Addison nodded. "Absolutely. I'll follow you back to the lab." She turned to Javier. "We need tissue samples as soon as possible to confirm it's the same compound."

"I'm betting it is," Javier said, running a hand through his hair. "Same MO, same connection to Allergene."

"What connection?" Ramirez asked.

"Weber sat on the medical ethics board that approved Allergene's clinical trials," Javier explained. "Our other victims were the lead researcher and the marketing executive on the same project."

"So we've got someone with a grudge against this drug?"

"Or against the people who developed it," Addison said. She approached Weber's body again, this time focusing on his hands. The right palm showed slight redness, different from the hive pattern on his neck.

"Look at this," she said, gesturing Javier closer. "Dermal contact, just like Phelps said. She looked the car over, suddenly a little uneasy to be around it. “Possibly from the car door handle or the steering wheel."

Javier nodded, taking out his phone to photograph the subtle marking. "We should check the parking garage cameras to see if anyone approached his car before he arrived."

"Already on it," Ramirez said. "Security's pulling footage now."

The ME techs were very carefully removing Weber’s body from the car, preparing to move it. They looked to Addison for permission to remove it from the scene. She was a bit shaken at having such responsibility but have them a nod.

"Go ahead," she said. "I'll join you at the lab after we finish here."

As they wheeled Weber's body toward the elevator, Addison turned to examine the crime scene more thoroughly. The parking space where the collision had occurred was in a back corner of the garage, away from the main traffic flow. But the killer would have had no control over that; it all came down to where Weber had parked…and the killer knowing such a detail.

"The killer got lucky that Weber parked here," she said to Javier. "Limited visibility, low traffic area."

Javier nodded, surveying the scene. "If Weber parked here regularly, our killer would have known his routine…. used it to their advantage."

"Which means they've been watching him." Addison walked slowly around the vehicles, studying the ground. "We need to check everywhere Weber might have touched before getting in his car—door handles, elevator buttons, anything."

Another person stepped off of the elevator as the medical examiner’s team stepped on. It was the same security guard they’d passed down on the main level. He approached them with a tablet in his hand. He looked to Ramirez and said, “I've got the footage you requested."

They gathered around the screen as the guard queued up video from the camera nearest Weber's parking spot. The footage was grainy, and the lighting was poor, but they could make out Weber entering the frame at 5:19 PM. He unlocked his car, opened the door, and stepped into it. He sat in the seat for a moment before stating the engine and then pulled out at 5:21. He straightened the car out, pulled ahead…and then the car veered to the left where it crashed softly into the other cars. There was no way to see inside the car, just a blurred shape of his left side through the glass.

"Can we see earlier footage?" Javier asked. "Maybe someone tampered with his car before he arrived."

The guard navigated back through the timeline. Between 2:30 and 3:15 PM, several people walked through the frame, but none approached Weber's parking space.

"What about other angles?" Addison asked.

"There's only one other camera with a partial view of this area," the guard admitted, switching to another feed. This angle showed the elevator lobby and a sliver of the parking area. The quality was even worse than the first camera.

"We need all footage from every camera in this garage for the past twelve hours or so," Javier said. "Someone had to have come by here to apply the compound to his car."

"Unless it wasn't on his car," Addison said suddenly. "What if the initial contact happened inside the hospital? Weber touches something at work, gets the first part of the compound on his skin. Then when he touches his car later, he gets the second part."

Javier's eyes widened. "Two-part delivery system. That's why we haven't found any unusual substances at the previous scenes."

"And why the symptoms appear so suddenly," Addison added. "The reaction only happens when both compounds combine in the bloodstream."

Ramirez, who had been listening, interjected. "So we need to search his office too."

"Immediately," Addison confirmed. "And we need to make absolutely sure the remaining potential targets are contacted and spoken to.”

“I can handle that,” Javier said. “I’ll stay here and you head to the ME’s office.” With a thin, slightly nervous smile, he added: “It seems that’s where the action is on this one.”

“You sure?”

"Yeah, get to the lab. I’m good here. I’ll call you with any developments.”

She nodded and found herself wanting to kiss him—just a quick peck that she nearly did deliver right in front of Ramirez. But she caught herself at the last minute, giving him such a stiff and emotionless nod that it was almost funny. She then hurried to the elevators to start yet another journey to the medical examiner’s office.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The medical examiner's lab felt like home to her; she had to admit it. Not the kind of home most people dreamed of—sterile, cold, and filled with the subtle scent of disinfectant and formaldehyde—but for Addison, it carried the comfort of familiarity.

Dr. Phelps worked silently across the room, his movements precise as he prepared tissue samples for further analysis. Addison watched him from her position at the workstation, wondering just how many samples he had run in the past twenty-four hours. She was struck by how little had changed since her days as a medical examiner. The same stainless-steel tables gleamed under the bright overhead lights. The same wall of refrigerated storage units hummed in the background. Even the layout of equipment—microscopes arranged in a neat row, centrifuges stationed close to the prep area, digital imaging systems updated but essentially unchanged in function—remained as she remembered. She had not always worked at this building, but one thing she'd learned during her time as an ME was that all medical examiners' offices were essentially the same.

She ran her gloved finger along the edge of the microscope before her, a high-end Olympus model that had replaced the older version she'd used years ago. Progress came in increments here, not overhauls. The fundamentals of death investigation hadn't changed much since she'd switched to the FBI.

"You miss it," Dr. Phelps said, not looking up from his work.

Addison glanced over, surprised by his perception. "Sometimes," she admitted. "There's a clarity to this work that field investigations don't always have."

"The dead tell their stories directly," Phelps nodded. "No lies, no obfuscation. Just evidence. I dare say some tell better stories dead than they do when alive."

"Exactly." Addison turned back to the Weber tissue samples under her microscope. "Though sometimes even that evidence can be frustratingly cryptic."

Dr. Phelps approached, carrying a tablet with preliminary reports. "Like our current case. Forensics confirmed the presence of the same synthetic compound found in Mitchell and Lawson."

"As expected," Addison murmured, adjusting the focus on her microscope.

The tissue samples from Weber's body revealed the same distinctive inflammation pattern they'd observed in the previous victims—concentrated rather than systemic, affecting specific histamine receptor sites with surgical precision. But something caught her attention as she examined slides from different tissue samples taken at varying time intervals during the autopsy.

"Dr. Phelps, do you have the chromatography results for all three victims?" she asked, straightening up from the microscope.

Phelps nodded, pulling up the data on his tablet and handing it to her. Addison scrolled through the chemical analysis reports, comparing the molecular breakdowns side by side. It only took about a full minute.

"There's something odd here," she said, moving back to the microscope to confirm her suspicion with another look at the tissue samples. "The compound isn't uniform. See these molecular markers?" She pointed to the highlighted sections on the chromatography report. "They're present in different concentrations depending on when the samples were taken during autopsy."

Phelps leaned in, his brow furrowed as he examined the data. "You're right. The chemical signature changes slightly over the course of the examination."

"It's not degradation," Addison said, her excitement building. "Look at the molecular structure. These aren't breakdown products. They're distinct compounds that appear to be interacting." She frowned because this was reaching the limits of her knowledge on such things. At some point, it ceased to be a medical examination and more like molecular biology to some degree.

Phelps took the tablet back, swiping through additional test results. "The mass spectrometry confirms it. There are two distinct chemical signatures here."

Addison moved to another workstation where tissue samples from all three victims were arranged in temporal sequence, from the earliest samples taken to the latest. Using a different microscopic technique with fluorescent markers, she examined the progression of the compound's presence in the tissues.

"Look at this," she called to Phelps, who joined her at the station. "The fluorescent markers show two different compounds binding at the cellular level. But the binding patterns suggest they weren't introduced simultaneously. One has clearly been around a bit longer."

Phelps studied the images with growing interest. "The first compound appears to have established itself in the tissues well before the second."

"Hours at a minimum," Addison agreed. "Possibly days."

She moved to the computer and pulled up a molecular modeling program, inputting data from their analysis. The 3D rendering showed two distinct chemical structures that, when combined, created a third configuration capable of triggering the severe histamine response they'd observed.

"It's a two-part compound, like we figured" she said, the implications dawning on her. "The first part establishes itself in the victim's system, binding to specific receptors but remaining inert. Then when the second compound is introduced..."

"It creates the lethal reaction," Phelps finished. "Ingenious and horrifying."

Addison sat back, her mind racing through the scenarios this new information suggested. "This changes everything about how we understand the killer's method. They need direct access to the victims twice—once for the initial compound, and again for the trigger."

"Which explains the precise targeting," Phelps said. "This isn't a poison that could be accidentally encountered. It requires deliberate administration on two separate occasions."

Addison nodded, thinking through the implications. "But we still don't know the delivery system. We’re pretty sure one is through dermal contact, but what about the other?”

"The gastric contents showed no unusual substances," Phelps confirmed. "And there were no injection sites."

"So we're likely looking at dermal absorption twice or possibly inhalation," Addison said, standing to pace the length of the lab—a habit from her medical examiner days when puzzling through a difficult case.

The lab enveloped her in its clinical comfort as she moved. The distinctive soft click of the digital timers, the subtle whir of ventilation systems, even the particular quality of light reflecting off polished surfaces—all of it transported her back to when these puzzles were her full-time occupation.

She paused by the evidence collection table where Weber's personal effects were arranged in sealed bags. His watch, wallet, keys, phone, and the contents of his pockets lay in neat rows, tagged and documented. Nothing unusual, nothing that stood out.

"What am I missing?" she murmured, more to herself than to Phelps.

"Perhaps it's about what isn't there rather than what is," Phelps suggested, joining her at the table.

Addison considered this, examining Weber's items more carefully. "His car keys," she said suddenly. "Or hell, even his door handle. The parking garage—that's where he was exposed to the second compound. The first could have happened anywhere during his regular routine."

"Creating an untraceable kill switch," Phelps said grimly. "The killer could administer the first compound through any number of means, then activate it days later with the second."

"Which significantly complicates our timeline and suspect pool," Addison said, frustration evident in her voice. "Anyone who had access to these victims in the days before their deaths could have administered the first compound. We've been focusing on their final hours, but the initial contact could have happened much earlier."

She returned to the microscope, examining the tissue samples again with this new understanding. The complexity of the case was multiplying before her eyes. They weren't just looking for someone who had been near the victims at the time of death, but potentially days before as well.

The familiar weight of responsibility settled over her as she worked through the implications. In her medical examiner days, her job ended with determining the cause and manner of death. Now, as an FBI agent, the harder work of catching the killer fell to her as well.

"We need to compile a complete accounting of all three victims' movements and contacts for at least a week before their deaths," she told Phelps, but was basically speaking to herself.

The lab phone rang, and Phelps answered. After a brief conversation, he turned to Addison. "That was your partner, Agent Esposito. He's secured Dr. Levinson and is still trying to locate Hammond."

“Thanks.”

Addison began removing her lab coat, reluctant to leave the ordered environment of the medical examiner's office for the chaos of the field investigation. Here, among microscopes and tissue samples, chemical analyses and precise measurements, the world made sense in a way it rarely did outside.

She moved through the familiar routine of ending a lab session—removing gloves, washing hands thoroughly, documenting her findings in the case file. The methodical process calmed her racing thoughts, allowing her to organize the new information into a coherent theory.

"The killer is using a sophisticated two-part compound that requires separate administrations," she summarized for Phelps as she prepared to leave. "The first compound establishes itself in the victim's system, binding to specific tissue receptors but remaining dormant. Some undetermined time later, the second compound triggers the reaction, causing symptoms identical to severe anaphylaxis."

"Making it appear like a natural allergic reaction," Phelps nodded. "Unless someone knows to look for this specific synthetic signature."

"Which no one would have without multiple victims showing the same pattern," Addison added. "Our killer counted on these deaths being dismissed as unfortunate medical events."

She gathered her notes and the preliminary reports. "Can you run a more detailed analysis of the concentration patterns across tissue types?"

"Already on it," Phelps assured her. "I'll have results for you by morning."

Addison nodded her thanks, taking one last look at the lab before departing. The organized efficiency of the space contrasted sharply with the muddled case she was working. Three victims, multiple suspects, a two-part poison requiring separate administrations, and an unknown delivery system. Questions multiplied faster than answers.

As she pushed through the lab doors into the corridor, the clinical environment gave way to the more chaotic world of active investigation. Her phone vibrated with a text from Javier: Got another name to check. Weber’s schedule has him going to lunch with Gabriel Wexler. Security cameras show him leaving to have lunch with him around noon.

She texted him back to let him know she was headed his way. And even before she sent it, she started to understand that this case had revealed new layers of complexity. Not only did they need to identify the killer, but they also needed to understand the exact mechanism of the murder weapon, a sophisticated pharmaceutical poison apparently custom-designed for this specific revenge. While they had a good idea of the people the killer was targeting, that might not be enough given the sophisticated way the killer was working.

As Addison reached her car in the parking lot, she took a moment to collect her thoughts. The medical examiner's lab had provided crucial insights, as it always did. The dead had spoken through their tissues and cells, revealing the killer's method. But translating that knowledge into preventing further deaths and capturing the perpetrator remained the greater challenge.

She started the car, already planning her next steps. They needed to expand their timeline, trace the victims' movements for days before their deaths, identify every person who might have had access to them, and simultaneously protect those still at risk.

The complexity was daunting, but the clarity she'd gained in the lab provided a foundation. Two-part compound. Separate administrations. Targeted tissue response. These facts would guide their investigation forward, even as the questions multiplied.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

She met back up with Javier in a private conference room within Seattle General Hospital, where Javier had remained while she'd been with Phelps again. The room offered privacy, if not comfort. Located in the administrative wing, away from the bustle of the emergency department and patient floors, it provided a temporary sanctuary where Addison and Javier could consolidate their investigation. A large oak table dominated the space, surrounded by ergonomic chairs that had seen better days. The walls were painted an institutional beige, and they held framed certificates and architectural renderings of planned hospital expansions.

Addison spread her notes across one end of the table while Javier set up his laptop. Outside the window, Seattle's skyline glittered against the night sky.

"Hammond's still in the wind," Javier said, typing furiously. "His assistant claims he's at a private dinner with investors, but won't disclose the location. I've got local PD checking his home and known haunts."

"We need to find him before our killer does," Addison replied, arranging autopsy photos in a row. "What about Levinson?"

"Under protection at his home in Queen Anne. Two officers stationed outside." Javier looked up from his screen. "Did you update Loomis?"

"Yeah, just a brief call on my way over,” she said. “She's arranging additional resources to make sure all potential victims are notified, but wants our focus on identifying the killer, not just protecting potential victims."

Javier nodded, returning to his laptop. "Good. I agree. Let's start with Weber's movements before his death…particularly with the name I texted you.”

“Wexler.”

"Right." He turned the screen to show Addison a spreadsheet of timestamps and location codes. Weber's ID badge had created a digital trail throughout the hospital—entering the building each morning, accessing restricted areas, and attending meetings in various departments. "Yesterday afternoon, Weber spent two hours in the pharmaceutical research wing with a visitor he signed in personally. The visitor's name is Gabriel Wexler."

Addison leaned closer. "Wexler... I've heard that name before."

"It came up in our initial research into Allergene." Javier pulled up another document—a staff roster from Helix Pharmaceuticals dated three years prior. "Gabriel Wexler was listed as a senior pharmaceutical chemist on the Allergene project…but not currently active with the project."

"So probably also not directly involved in the clinical trials," Addison noted, scanning the document. "His name doesn't appear on any of the trial protocols or ethics submissions…not that I recall, anyway."

"No, he wasn’t involved in any of that. He worked on the compound formulation, not the clinical implementation." Javier opened a new search window. "Let's see what else we can find on him."

They worked in parallel—Javier pursuing digital records while Addison reviewed physical documents they'd collected from the hospital's records department. The conference room fell quiet except for the click of keyboard keys and the soft rustle of paper. It was tense, but also oddly familiar. She didn’t enjoy these moments at all, but working in such a mundane fashion with Javier next to her made it much more bearable.

"Got something," Javier said after several minutes. Still staring at his screen, he reported what he'd found. "Wexler left Helix Pharmaceuticals three years ago, right after Allergene's trials were halted. According to his LinkedIn profile, he now works as a consultant for various pharmaceutical companies, specializing in antihistamine compounds."

"Huh…that seems like a very convenient form of expertise for creating our murder weapon," Addison observed. "Any red flags in his background check?"

Javier typed rapidly, accessing two different FBI databases. "No criminal record. He’s got a doctorate in pharmaceutical chemistry from UW. Multiple patents. Looks like he’s divorced, with one kid…” His voice trailed off as he read further, no longer out loud but silently..

"What is it?" Addison asked, noticing his change in demeanor.

"His daughter, Lily Wexler, age sixteen. She died three years ago." Javier looked up from the screen. "Cause of death: anaphylactic shock due to unknown allergen exposure."

"Three years ago," Addison repeated. "That would have been..."

"Right around the time Allergene's trials were terminated," Javier confirmed. "And shortly before Wexler left Helix."

Addison stood, pacing the length of the conference room. Neither of them needed to speak out loud the very clear point that now filled the room. This was the motive. This was a tragedy. They now had a very likely suspect.

"The timing can't be coincidental,” Addison said. “We need to dig deeper into the daughter's death."

Javier was already searching, scanning, and scrolling along the screen in front of him. "Death certificate lists it as accidental. The medical examiner's report notes no known allergies prior to the incident. She was transported to..." He paused, looking around the room. "To Seattle General, but was pronounced dead on arrival."

"This hospital," Addison said softly. "And Weber was likely on the ethics board that approved Allergene at the time."

"Creating a direct connection between Wexler, his daughter's death, and our victims." Javier took a moment to let this all sink in and then continued searching.

Addison returned to the table, pulling a stack of Allergene clinical trial documents toward her. "Let's see if there's any link between Lily Wexler and the Allergene trials, then."

They spent the next thirty minutes searching through records, creating a timeline on the whiteboard that occupied one wall of the conference room. Addison wrote key dates with a blue marker as she came to them, trying to create a timeline of sorts:

Allergene development began (4 years ago)

Initial clinical trials approved (3.5 years ago)

Trial participants report severe reactions (3 years ago)

Three trial participants died (3-ish years ago)

Lily Wexler died of anaphylaxis (3 years ago)

Allergene trials terminated (3 years ago)

Gabriel Wexler leaves Helix Pharmaceuticals (almost 3 years ago)

Javier stood back, examining the timeline. "The sequence fits. But we still don't have a direct link between Lily's death and Allergene."

"Maybe there isn't one in the official record," Addison suggested. "If Wexler believed the drug was responsible for his daughter’s death but couldn't prove it..."

"It could have fueled a three-year quest for revenge," Javier finished. "And he certainly has the chemical expertise to create our synthetic compound."

Addison nodded, adding Wexler's name to their suspect list. "We need to speak with him directly. Where's his current residence?"

Javier returned to his laptop. "Property records show a house in Ravenna, about fifteen minutes from here." He checked his watch. "But it's nearly 9:30."

"Too late for a casual interview, not late enough for an emergency," Addison said. "But I don't want to wait until morning. Not with Hammond unaccounted for and still no solid leads on this killer."

"Agreed. We can present it as urgent due to Weber's death. Wexler was one of the last people to see him alive. They apparently had lunch at some point today, according to Wever’s schedule." Javier closed his laptop and began gathering their materials. "What's our approach? Soft interview or hard press?"

Addison considered the question as she collected the autopsy photos. "Let's start soft. No accusations, just information gathering. If he's our killer, he's methodical and intelligent. Pushing too hard could make him defensive."

"And if he's already administered the first compound to Hammond or Levinson, we need him to be cooperative," Javier agreed.

They finished packing up their materials, and the conference room was now marked with their presence—coffee cups on the sideboard, the timeline written on the whiteboard, and chair positions shifted from their original neat arrangement.

"Should we bring backup?" Javier asked as they headed for the door.

"Not yet. Two FBI agents showing up at night is alarming enough. A tactical team would put him completely on guard." Addison paused at the doorway. "Besides…it’s a strong hunch, but still a hunch all the same.”

Javier nodded as they walked down the hospital corridor toward the elevator. The administrative wing was quiet at this hour, and most offices were dark except for security lighting. Their footsteps echoed on the polished floor.

"What if he's not home?" Javier asked as they waited for the elevator.

"Then we stake it out until he returns," Addison replied. "I'm not letting another potential victim die because we couldn't locate a promising suspect in time."

The elevator arrived with a soft chime, doors sliding open to reveal an empty car. They stepped inside, and Javier pressed the button for the parking level.

"Promising in right,” Javier said. “We even have the poetic justice angle. Killing Allergene's developers with what appears to be anaphylaxis, the same way his daughter died."

"It fits," Addison agreed. "But we need more than circumstantial evidence. And we need to understand the exact mechanism of the compound to prevent more deaths."

The elevator descended smoothly, the floor indicator counting down levels. Hospital sounds faded as they moved away from patient areas toward the parking garage.

"If it is Wexler," Javier said quietly, "we're dealing with someone who's spent three years planning these murders. Someone methodical, patient, and technically skilled."

"And someone who feels justified in what they're doing," Addison added. "Those are often the most dangerous killers—the ones who believe they're delivering justice."

The elevator reached the parking level and the doors opened to reveal the concrete expanse of the hospital garage—the same structure where Weber had died hours earlier. The crime scene tape still cordoned off the area where his car had collided with the parked vehicles.

They walked toward their unmarked FBI vehicle, passing under the same security cameras that had failed to capture their killer applying the lethal compound to Weber's car. Addison glanced up at one of the cameras, wondering what other gaps in coverage the killer had exploited.

“Still nothing from the security cameras?” she asked.

“Not a damn thing. If someone messed with Weber’s car in any way, they did it somewhere else.”

Addison nodded, shifting to the interview ahead. Gabriel Wexler—grieving father, brilliant chemist, and possibly a calculating killer executing a years-long revenge plan. If he was their suspect, this conversation could be the key to preventing more deaths. If not, they were wasting precious time while other lives remained at risk.

In other words, the clock was ticking, and they had no idea how much time they had left before someone else died.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The drive to Ravenna took them through quiet residential streets. Gabriel Wexler's house sat on a corner lot—a modest 1960s rambler with cedar siding and crisp white trim. A large maple tree dominated the front yard, its branches casting moon-dappled shadows across a neatly maintained lawn. The porch light was off, but warm light glowed from behind drawn curtains.

"Homey," Javier commented as they pulled up to the curb.

"Doesn't exactly scream vengeful killer, does it?" Addison agreed, surveying the property. A late-model Subaru sat in the driveway, its hood cool to the touch when they passed it. "He's been home a while."

They approached the front door, their footsteps soft on the decorative sidewalk that cut through the lawn. Javier rang the doorbell, and they heard its muffled chime inside, followed by movement.

The door opened to reveal a man in his mid-forties, tall and lean with disheveled brown hair streaked with gray. He wore reading glasses perched on his nose and khaki pants with a rumpled button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked like a professor interrupted in the middle of grading papers.

"Gabriel Wexler?" Javier asked, both agents showing their credentials.

Wexler's expression shifted from curious to concerned. "FBI? What's this about? You…well, you understand what time it is, I assume?”

"We do,” Javier said. “And we apologize, but this is rather urgent. I'm Special Agent Javier Esposito, and this is Special Agent Addison Shine. We'd like to ask you a few questions. May we come in?"

Wexler glanced at his watch as if for dramatic effect, then back at the agents with obvious apprehension. "At this hour? Is something wrong?"

"It concerns your meeting yesterday with Dr. Roland Weber," Addison said.

A flicker of recognition crossed Wexler's face. "My meeting with Roland? What about it?"

"Dr. Weber died earlier today," Javier said directly, though cushioning it softly. "We're investigating the circumstances."

Wexler's face drained of color. "Roland is dead?” His eyes wandered wide, as if he might find the answer somewhere beyond his front porch. “God…what happened?"

"That's what we're trying to determine," Addison said. "Would you mind if we came inside to discuss it?"

Wexler hesitated only briefly before stepping back. "Of course, please, come in."

The interior of the house matched its exterior—modest but comfortable. The living room featured a worn leather sofa and matching armchair, bookshelves lining two walls, filled with scientific texts and journals. A glass coffee table held several scientific magazines, a half-empty cup of tea, and reading glasses. Family photos dotted the walls and shelves, many showing a smiling teenage girl with Wexler's same brown hair and angular features.

"Please, sit down," Wexler gestured to the sofa, clearing away some papers. "Can I get you anything? Water, coffee?" It seemed his irritation had been swept away by the terrible news they’d delivered.

"We're fine, thank you," Addison said, taking a seat while Javier remained standing, casually surveying the room.

"You said Roland is dead? I just saw him yesterday afternoon." Wexler sat in the armchair across from them, leaning forward with his hands clasped between his knees. "What happened?"

"He experienced what appeared to be a severe allergic reaction while in his car at the hospital parking garage," Addison explained, watching Wexler's face closely. "He lost control of the vehicle and collided with two parked cars. It seemed he died very fast…out of nowhere."

"An allergic reaction?" Wexler's brow furrowed. "That's... unexpected. Roland had a peanut allergy, but it was mild. He carried an EpiPen just in case, but I never saw him use it."

"That's consistent with what we've heard," Javier said. "We're investigating because his death follows a pattern. Two other individuals connected to Helix Pharmaceuticals died recently in similar circumstances."

"What?" Wexler asked quickly, then added, "Who? I still have former colleagues there." Addison wasn’t sure, but she thought the man looked like he was on the verge of tears.

"Dr. Samuel Mitchell and Catherine Lawson," Addison said.

She watched his face for a reaction, hoping there might be clues there. Wexler's reaction seemed genuine—his eyes widened, and he sat back heavily in his chair. "Sam and Catherine? Both dead from allergic reactions?" he asked it almost like a riddle, like he didn’t quite understand what he’d heard.

"Yes. All three victims were involved with the Allergene project," Javier added.

"And you're here because I met with Roland yesterday," Wexler said, understanding dawning. "And because I used to work on Allergene."

"That's right," Addison confirmed. "We're speaking with anyone connected to the project, especially those who had recent contact with any of the victims…trying to find answers as quickly as we can."

Wexler ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of agitation or stress. "I'll help however I can. This is... shocking." He began to wring his hands together nervously as he visibly fought to keep from breaking down.

"Let's start with your meeting with Dr. Weber," Addison suggested. "What did you discuss?"

"I've been developing a new antihistamine compound independently," Wexler explained, seeming eager to cooperate. "Roland has expertise in immunology and ethics oversight. I wanted his opinion on my research approach before I proceeded with further testing."

"You're still working on antihistamines after what happened with Allergene?" Javier asked.

A shadow crossed Wexler's face. "Yes. Especially after what happened with Allergene. The concept was sound; the implementation was flawed. Rushed to market by executives who cared more about quarterly projections than patient safety."

The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable.

“Was it a normal thing for you to reach out to Dr. Weber?”

“Not that normal. Maybe a few times a year.”

"Mr. Wexler," Addison said carefully, "Your background means that you’re one of the few people who could have created this compound"

Wexler didn't flinch at the direct question. "I imagine that’s correct. Any competent pharmaceutical chemist with immunology knowledge could, theoretically. Is that what you think happened to Roland and the others?"

"We're exploring all possibilities," Javier said noncommittally.

"I understand." Wexler leaned forward again. "You suspect the deaths weren't accidental. And given my history with Helix and Allergene, I'm a person of interest." There was no bitterness at all; he spoke matter-of-factly.

"We're just gathering information at this stage," Addison assured him, though his perceptiveness was noteworthy.

"If they were murdered," Wexler said slowly, "I want to help you find who did it. Roland was a decent man. So was Sam, despite our differences. Even Catherine was just doing her job, I suppose."

"You mentioned independent research," Javier said. "Do you have a lab facility somewhere?"

Wexler hesitated. "I converted my basement several years ago. Sort of a passion project. It's modest, but functional for my purposes."

"Would you mind showing us?" Addison asked.

There was just moment of hesitation, a flicker of unease in his expression. "It's nothing fancy, and—" he paused. "Everything I'm doing is legal. Just so we're clear on that."

"We're not here about your research, Mr. Wexler," Javier reassured him. "We're investigating deaths and, as you said yourself, your history and ties to one of the victims makes you a person of interest."

"Right. Of course." Wexler stood, still with an uneasiness to his expression and now even is posture. "This way."

He led them through the kitchen to a door that opened onto stairs leading down. He turned the light on and led them down a set of carpeted stairs. The basement was finished and, as Wexler had said, had been converted to a laboratory space. Tables lined the walls, holding various pieces of equipment—centrifuges, microscopes, a small fume hood, and analytical instruments. AS she took it all in, Addison noticed that several items bore the Helix Pharmaceuticals logo.

"You took equipment from Helix when you left?" Addison asked, noting a high-end mass spectrometer with the company's emblem.

Wexler looked uncomfortable. "Yes. Does that put me in trouble? They were going to scrap most of it during a lab renovation. I asked if I could take it, and when no one gave me a clear answer, I just... took it."

"We're not concerned about that right now," Javier said, examining the lab setup. Addison wasn’t worried about it either, though it was pretty blatant theft.

She continued to survey the space with a practiced eye. The equipment was sophisticated but didn't appear to be configured for compound synthesis. There was a notable absence of chemical precursors, reaction vessels, or purification systems that would be necessary for creating complex pharmaceutical compounds. From what she could tell, most of the setup seemed geared toward analysis rather than creation.

"Your lab is primarily for testing, not synthesis," she observed.

Wexler nodded. "That's right. I analyze samples, test reactions on a micro scale. Any actual synthesis happens at a colleague's lab at UW when I can arrange time there. This is mostly for preliminary work and data analysis."

Addison exchanged a glance with Javier. The lab setup didn't support the creation of their murder weapon, at least not in quantities needed for multiple killings. Then again, she wasn’t exactly sure what sort of quantities were being used.

"Tell us about your meetings with Dr. Weber," Javier said as leaned against a rare space of bare wall within the lab.

"I've been consulting with Roland off and on for about six months," Wexler explained. "He has had valuable insights into the regulatory aspects of drug development. I'm trying to avoid the mistakes that happened with Allergene."

"And what were those mistakes, in your opinion?" Addison asked.

Wexler's expression hardened. "Rushing through development phases without adequate safety testing. Ignoring anomalous results in favor of promising data. Prioritizing speed to market over thorough understanding of the compound's interactions with varying immune systems."

"You believe Allergene could have worked?" Javier asked.

"I know it could have, given more time," Wexler said firmly. "The core mechanism was sound. But Helix pushed it forward too quickly, despite concerns from researchers like me."

"Your daughter died around the same time the Allergene trials were halted," Addison said, "Lily, right?" She hated to throw that particular card out with such nonchalance, but it was another way to properly gauge his reaction.

His expression softened as he nodded. "Yes. Lily was sixteen. She had no history of allergies, then suddenly went into anaphylactic shock after dinner at a restaurant. By the time the ambulance arrived..." He trailed off, swallowing hard. "The medical examiner never identified the specific allergen. Just one of those tragic, unexplained reactions."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Addison said softly. “Truly.”

"Were you working on Allergene when she died?" Javier asked.

Wexler nodded. "The timing was... difficult. I was trying to develop a drug that could prevent exactly what killed her. After her death, I became even more committed to making it work correctly. But Helix wasn't interested in taking the time to get it right."

"So you left," Addison concluded.

"I was pushed out," Wexler corrected bitterly. "My insistence on additional testing was seen as obstructive. When the trials were halted after those three deaths, Helix wanted to blame the researchers, not their truncated testing protocols."

The conversation continued for another twenty minutes, with Wexler readily answering their questions about his relationship with the victims, his work at Helix, and his current research. His bitterness toward his former employer was evident, but his grief when speaking about his daughter seemed genuine. They ended up heading back upstairs, where Wexler took a moment to look longingly at a picture of his daughter in the living room.

Before they left, Addison had one last play. She pulled her phone from her pocket and pulled up the toxicology reports and molecular imaging from the victims' tissue samples. She’d snapped pictures of them back at the Phelps’ office so she’d always have them on hand as they worked their way through this case.

"Mr. Wexler, I'd like your professional opinion on something." She leaned in closer to him, letting him see the photos. "These are the compounds we found in the victims' systems. Do you have any initial thoughts?"

Wexler leaned forward, putting on his reading glasses to examine the documents. His expression shifted from professional curiosity to surprise.

"This is remarkable," he said after a few moments of study.

“What’s remarkable about it?”

 “These molecular structures share significant similarities with compounds we developed during Allergene's creation."

Addison exchanged a quick look with Javier. "You're sure?"

"Positive." Wexler pointed to specific molecular groups in the images. "These receptor binding sites are nearly identical to what was designed for Allergene, but with modifications that would target specific histamine pathways much more aggressively. It's like someone took that research and…I don’t know…weaponized it."

He looked up, his expression grave. Addison could literally see the understanding washing over his features. "I'd testify to this if needed,” he said. “Whoever created this had intimate knowledge of Allergene's chemical structure."

"Thank you, Mr. Wexler. That's extremely helpful," Addison said, pocketing her phone again. A new theory was forming in her mind, connections she hadn't considered before.

"Are we done?" Javier asked, reading her change in demeanor.

"For now," Addison confirmed, standing. "Mr. Wexler, thank you for your cooperation. We may have additional questions as our investigation continues. Please…don’t leave the city for several days."

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” he said as he walked them to the door. "And please…contact me if you have any more questions. I’ve felt like a bit of an outsider…maybe even a pariah when it comes to Helix as of late. But I’ll help however I can."

“Thank you, Mr. Wexler.”

They stepped back out into the night and started back across the yard. As they neared the car, Javier reached out and took her hand. "You've got that look," he said.

"What look?"

"The one that says your brain just connected dots the rest of us haven't even seen yet. Want to share?"

Addison paused at the car door, the night air cool against her face. "What if we've been looking at this all wrong? Wexler identified similarities between our compound and Allergene. That narrows our suspect pool considerably."

"To people with intimate knowledge of Allergene's formula," Javier said, following her reasoning. "That's still a dozen or more researchers."

"Yes, but combined with motive and opportunity..." Addison let the thought hang incomplete as she slid into the passenger seat.

"I’m apparently not smart enough to connect the dots yet," Javier said as he started the engine.

"I may not be yet, either. I need to check something first." She pulled out her phone, scrolling through case notes. "Let's head back to the field office. I need to review the complete list of Allergene trial participants."

Javier pulled away from the curb, glancing at his partner. "You think we’ve been wrong in our approach?”

"I think we've been focusing on the wrong connections," Addison replied, her mind racing ahead, following a trail of evidence toward a theory that was still taking shape. "And if I'm right, we don't have much time before the next victim."

The car accelerated into the night, leaving Wexler's house behind. As they drove, Addison stared out at the passing streetlights, the pieces of the puzzle rearranging themselves in her mind. She was quite certain Wexler was not their killer…but their conversation had given her something potentially more valuable: a new direction.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The night air had turned brisk as they hurried back to their car. Streetlights cast long shadows across Wexler's front lawn, and their breath formed small clouds in the chill.

"I think I know what's happening," Addison said as she clicked her seatbelt. "The compound we're finding in the victims—Wexler confirmed it shares structural similarities with Allergene."

Javier started the engine and pulled away from the curb. "That narrows our suspect pool to people who knew Allergene's formula."

"It's more than that." Addison's eyes were bright with realization. "What if our killer isn't just using something similar to Allergene? What if they're using Allergene itself as part of the two-stage compound?"

Javier glanced at her. "For a killer this clever, that would seem a little on-the-nose, wouldn’t it?"

"Think about it," Addison said, turning in her seat to face him. "We know our killer is using a two-part compound. The first part establishes itself in the victim's system and remains dormant until the second part activates it, triggering the fatal reaction."

"And you think the first part is Allergene?"

"It would make sense. Allergene was designed to bind to specific histamine receptors. During the trials, several participants died of apparent anaphylaxis." She paused, putting the pieces together. "What if those weren't accidental reactions? What if Allergene itself was causing the severe allergic reactions?"

Javier frowned as he navigated through the residential streets. "But wouldn't Helix have identified that during their analysis?"

"Maybe, maybe not. Pharmaceutical trials expect a certain percentage of adverse reactions. If the deaths fell within statistical margins, they might have attributed them to individual sensitivities rather than a fundamental flaw in the drug."

"But you're suggesting Allergene itself is dangerous?"

"Not to everyone," Addison clarified. "Only when activated by a secondary compound. And possibly only in people with specific physiological markers."

Javier stopped at a red light as he considered all of this. "So our killer knows that Allergene creates a potential vulnerability in anyone who takes it. Then they administer a second compound that triggers the fatal reaction."

"Exactly. It would explain why all our victims were connected to Allergene's development. They had the most access to the compound, might have been testing it themselves. That’s just an unfounded theory, though."

"But how would our killer get Allergene? Helix shelved the project years ago."

The light turned green, and they accelerated through the intersection. Addison considered the question for a moment before answering. "Someone involved in the project could have kept samples. Or synthesized more based on the formula." She paused. "Wexler's basement lab wasn't equipped for full synthesis, but he admitted he uses university facilities occasionally."

"So Wexler is still our prime suspect?"

"He's certainly capable," Addison said. "But something doesn't feel right. His grief over his daughter seemed genuine, and he was genuinely helpful about identifying the compound." She shrugged and said,” I don’t think it’s him.”

"Killers often insert themselves into investigations," Javier reminded her. "Don’t forget about that. It's a way to control the narrative, stay one step ahead."

"True. But there's another angle we haven't fully explored." Addison reached for her tablet and pulled up the Allergene file. "We know about the three trial participants who died, but we haven't examined those deaths closely. What if our killer had a connection to one of them?"

Javier considered this. "Like Wexler's connection to his daughter?"

"Similar, but with a direct link to Allergene. A family member who participated in the trials and died as a result."

"That significantly narrows our suspect pool," Javier said, turning onto the highway toward downtown. "But we'd need the full clinical trial records to identify those connections."

"Exactly. And those would be sealed as proprietary information."

They drove in silence for a moment, both processing the implications of this new theory.

"Helix will fight a records request," Javier finally said. "They'll claim trade secrets and confidentiality agreements with trial participants. The usual bullshit."

"Then we'll need a warrant." Addison pulled out her phone. "I'm calling it in now. We need those records."

Javier nodded, accepting her conviction. "So our killer either worked on Allergene or lost someone to it. That still leaves us with multiple suspects."

"But fewer than we had this morning," Addison pointed out, thumbing through her contacts for the proper office to call with her request at the field office. "And the trial records should narrow it further."

"One more thing bothers me," Javier said as they turned toward the federal building. "If Allergene is part of the murder weapon, how is our killer delivering it to the victims? The drug never made it to market."

"That's what I intend to find out from the trial records," Addison replied. "How much of the drug was produced? Where were samples stored? Who had access to the remaining inventory after the trials were halted?"

She finally found the number she needed—the personal line to SAIC Drummond, who often worked hand-in-hand with Loomis concerning legalities of warrants and the handling of evidence.

He answered on the second ring and sounded a bit grumpy. “Agent Shine?” he said.

“Yes, sir. Sorry to call so late. But it’s important.”

“I’m sure it is. What’s going on?”

"Sir, we've identified a potential link between the Helix Pharmaceuticals murders and the Allergene clinical trials from three years ago. We believe our killer may have a connection to one of the trial participants who died during testing."

"Go on," Drummond said, his tone more attentive.

"We need a warrant to compel Helix to turn over all records from the Allergene trials—participant lists, adverse event reports, everything. Most critically, we need detailed information on the participants who died during the trials."

"Helix will have their legal team all over this," Drummond warned. "They'll claim those records contain trade secrets and confidential patient information."

"I know. That's why I'm calling you directly rather than Loomis. We're sort of cutting the line here. We can narrow the scope to just the deceased participants if necessary," Addison said. "But we need those names and their complete medical records from the trials."

There was a pause on the line. "You're certain this is the right direction? Enough to wake up a judge at this hour?"

"Yes, sir," Addison said firmly. "We've got three victims connected to Allergene, all killed with a compound that shares its molecular structure. And we have a fourth potential victim still unaccounted for."

There was another pause...just long enough for Addison to fear that Drummond was going to deny the request, telling them he needed more evidence before he made such a call. Finally, though, he said: "I'll call Judge Watkins. She's handled pharmaceutical cases before and understands the balance between corporate interests and public safety. I'll need a detailed affidavit from you justifying the request."

"I'll have it to you within an hour," Addison promised. "We're heading to the field office now."

"I’ll keep my eyes out for it.”

With that, the call was over. Javier was accelerating slightly as they merged onto the expressway toward downtown Seattle. "You really think the trial records will give us our killer?"

"I'm betting on it," Addison said, already typing notes for the affidavit on her tablet. "Three people died during those trials. If our theory is correct, someone connected to one of those deaths has intimate knowledge of Allergene and a powerful motive for revenge."

"Wexler fits that profile, too," Javier pointed out. "His daughter died of anaphylaxis around the same time."

"But according to records, she wasn't in the trial," Addison countered. "That's what makes me question him as our prime suspect. His daughter's death appears to be coincidental, not directly linked to Allergene."

"Unless there's something we don't know yet," Javier said.

Addison nodded, acknowledging the possibility. "That's another reason we need those records. If Lily Wexler is listed under any name, that would significantly strengthen the case against him."

They fell silent as Javier navigated through late-night traffic. The Seattle skyline glittered ahead, and the field office was located in one of the downtown buildings.

"What happens if Helix refuses to comply with the warrant?" Javier asked after a while.

"They won't refuse outright," Addison said. "That would be contempt and would look very bad.”

Addison continued working on her tablet as they drove, outlining the justification for the warrant. The case was taking shape in her mind—the connection between Allergene and the murders, the two-part compound delivery system, the targeted selection of victims involved in the drug's development.

Before she was fully aware of where they were, Javier pulled into the parking garage beneath the federal building and found a spot near the elevator. As they rode the elevators up to the field office floor, Addison mentally prepared for the fight ahead. Helix Pharmaceuticals wouldn't surrender their proprietary information easily, even with a warrant.

"You know," Javier said as the elevator doors opened, "if your theory is right, this isn't just about catching a killer. It could expose serious negligence at Helix—pushing a dangerous drug despite evidence of fatal reactions."

"I know, but…one battle at a time," Addison cautioned. "Right now, I just want to stop this killer before anyone else dies." What she thought, but did not want to speak out loud, was that somewhere out there, the next victim may already have come into contact with the first compound.

The field office was quiet at this hour, only a skeletal night shift manning essential operations. Addison headed straight for her office, powering up her computer to formalize the affidavit for the warrant.

"I'll check in with local PD on Hammond's whereabouts," Javier said, heading to his own workspace.

Addison began typing, laying out their theory connecting the murders to Allergene and justifying their need for the trial records. She knew that forcing a major pharmaceutical company to open their closely guarded research data would require compelling arguments and precise legal language. It wasn’t her strong suit, but she had a few templates to pull from to make it easier.

As she worked, she started to home in more on the alarming prospect of a two-part weapon. If the next victim had already come into contact with the first part of the compound, was it already too late to save them?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Once the affidavit had been sent out, Addison and Javier commandeered a conference room, its large table now covered with printouts of news articles, scientific journals, and regulatory filings related to Allergene. They usually just holed up in Addison’s office for things like this but because there was so much paperwork and so many moving parts to this case, it required larger quarters.

They’d been looking into the trials and any publicity on Allergene from around the time things had turned bad. So far, it felt like treading uphill.

"Three years of coverage, and most of it says the same things in different words," Javier said, pushing away another article. He rubbed his eyes, fatigue evident in his posture.

“Well, the most creative use of words, I’ve come across” Addison said, tapping a medical journal article that detailed the official findings on the trial participants' deaths, “was idiopathic immune response. Which is just medical jargon for 'we don't know why they died.'"

"Convenient terminology when you don't want to admit your drug might be dangerous," Javier commented.

The wall clock read 1:38 AM. They'd been combing through every piece of public information about Allergene for hours, building a timeline of its development and eventual failure. Addison had a cup of strong but lukewarm coffee at her side; so far she’d not felt even slightly tired. Over the past year or so, all-nighters had become a little too common to her.

"What we know for certain," Addison said, gesturing to their whiteboard timeline, "is that Allergene looked promising in early trials. Phase One showed minimal side effects. Then in Phase Two, with a larger participant group, three people died from what appeared to be severe allergic reactions."

"Despite having no previous history of allergies," Javier added.

"Exactly. Helix halted the trials, conducted an internal investigation that found no direct link between the drug and the deaths, but decided not to pursue FDA approval anyway."

"Which is where Dr. Marcus Levinson comes in," Javier said, pulling up Levinson's file on his tablet. "Research director for Allergene,…he left Helix shortly after the project was shelved."

"Unlike Samuel Mitchell, who stayed to work on other projects, or Weber, who remained on the ethics board," Addison noted. "Levinson jumped ship completely, started his own private clinic specializing in immunology."

"Leveraging his experience with Allergene, no doubt."

Addison nodded. "He's next on our interview list, after Hammond. Assuming we can find Hammond."

"Last update from local PD said they're still canvassing his known locations." Javier checked his phone for messages. "Nothing new. They've never reached out to his estranged ex-wife, but there's no word there, either."

They fell into silence for several more minutes as the clock ticked down closer to dawn. It was nearly 2:30 when Javier stood up and stretched is arms and back out, almost childlike in his posture as he did so.

"We should call it a night," he said. "We know the warrant won't come through until morning at the earliest-if it comes at all—and Levinson's clinic doesn't open until nine."

“Yeah, I guess he would be our next logical stop.” She sighed and, though she still wasn’t overly tired, nodded in agreement. "You're right. Even if we got the warrant now—and that’s not bloody likely—Helix wouldn't hand over anything until business hours. And they'll fight it every step of the way."

"Legal team's probably already on standby, preparing motions to quash."

"No doubt." Addison began organizing their files. "And showing up at Levinson's house at this hour would just put him on the defensive."

"Plus, he's under police protection. It’s not like he’s going anywhere.

“Okay, then. I say we head to your place. It’s like five minutes closer than mine.”

"A few hours of sleep, then we hit Levinson's clinic first thing," Javier said.

"And hope the warrant comes through before Helix's lawyers bury it in motions."

They switched off the conference room lights and headed for the elevator. As she thought of lying in a bed and closing her eyes, Addison realized she was maybe a little more tired than she realized. So for now, sleep was the priority—a brief respite before diving back into the hunt for a killer who had already claimed three lives and might be closing in on a fourth.

***

Sunlight filtered through unfamiliar blinds, rousing Addison from a deeper sleep than she'd expected. She felt that she’d slept surprisingly well, or perhaps exhaustion had simply overridden any discomfort.

She reached for her phone on Javier's bedside table. 6:40 AM. No missed calls or messages from Loomis or the field office regarding the warrant. Not that she'd really expected any.

"Nothing yet," Javier confirmed from the doorway. He was carrying a cup of steaming coffee as he approached the bed. "But it's not surprising. Judge Watkins is thorough—she won't rush a warrant that touches on corporate proprietary information."

He offered her the coffee and she took it gratefully. She sipped from it, sitting up in bed and taking a moment to fully wake before heading to the bathroom.

Javier’s house was modest but tidy—a one-bedroom in a small, quiet neighborhood. It was decorated minimally but thoughtfully. It suited Javier, she thought. Practical, uncomplicated, but with attention to detail.

After finishing her coffee, Addison gathered her overnight bag and headed for the shower. In the small bathroom, Javier was busy shaving, having already taken his shower; the room was slightly steamy as a result. Javier had only a towel wrapped around him and nothing more. It took a good deal of restraint for Addison to quickly strip down and hop in the shower rather than stripping the towel off of Javier and having a quickie up against his sink…or in the floor…or on the shower.

With a frown, she turned the water to cold when she got in. That did the trick after a few seconds, and her mind was squarely back on the case…only the questions seemed to hijack her train of thought. Well, either that her unexpected sexual surge…or the fact that she wasn’t quite awake just yet. So instead, her mind landed where if often did when she was feeling out of sorts and chaotic: Jane.

Her brain had latched onto the possibility that Leslie may have known something about Jane's disappearance. Not that it mattered, as Leslie had killed herself a few years ago, according to what she now knew. Addison knew it was a stretch, but she couldn't help but wonder if Leslie had known something and if whatever it had been might have played a hand in her suicide. Had she known something that had been a burden too heavy to bear?

These parallel mysteries—Jane's disappearance and the Allergene murders—occupied different compartments in her mind, but both centered on loss, on lives cut short or forever altered. Both drove her forward, searching for answers that might provide, if not closure, then at least understanding.

Stepping out of the shower several minutes later, Addison pushed these thoughts aside. The Allergene case demanded her full attention now. There would be time for Jane's mystery later. After all, Jane was never very far from her thoughts.

After dressing and a quick breakfast of toast and more coffee, they headed out together. The morning was clear and cool, typical Seattle spring weather that couldn't decide between winter and summer.

"Levinson's clinic is in Bellevue," Javier said as they drove across Lake Washington. "Harmony Wellness Center. Specializes in immunology and allergy treatments."

"Ironic, given his connection to Allergene," Addison noted. "How's his protection detail?"

"Two officers rotating shifts, keeping watch on both his home and clinic. He's been cooperative. One note said that he seemed to be taking it in stride, making jokes about it."

They meandered their way through morning rush hour traffic and finally arrived at their destination at 8:05. The clinic occupied the ground floor of a small medical complex, its exterior designed to look more like a spa than a medical facility. Earth tones, natural wood accents, and a small rock garden near the entrance created an atmosphere of calm and healing.

Inside, the reception area continued the theme with comfortable seating, soft lighting, and the gentle sound of flowing water from a small indoor fountain. The space felt deliberately designed to put patients at ease, right down to the smiling receptionist just a few steps away from the door.

"Can I help you?" the receptionist asked as they approached. She was young, professionally dressed, and exhibited the polished demeanor of someone who dealt with anxious patients daily.

Javier showed his credentials. "FBI. We'd like to speak with Dr. Levinson if he's available."

Her polished smile faltered slightly. "He doesn't have any patients scheduled until nine-thirty. Let me check if he's free." Her eyes lingered on Javier’s ID as she got to her feet and walked away.

She disappeared down a hallway, returning moments later. "Dr. Levinson can see you now. Please follow me."

She led them back down the same hallway, not saying a word. The hallway smelled slightly of coffee and some sort of pastry. It was also bright white, but not too bright. Addison assumed it was meant to come off as calming. When they came to Levinson's office, the receptionist simply gestured them into the open door politely and walked back down the hall.

Levinson's office continued the wellness center aesthetic—calming colors, tasteful artwork of natural landscapes, certificates and diplomas arranged artfully rather than imposingly. The doctor himself stood behind his desk, a man in his mid-fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a white coat over business casual attire, creating a balance between medical authority and approachable practitioner.

"Agents," he greeted them, gesturing to chairs opposite his desk. "I've been expecting someone from the FBI, if I’m being honest. I heard about the terrible things going on over at Helix. And then this morning…is it true that Weber was also found dead?”

"It is," Addison said as they took the pair of seats in front of his desk. "Dr. Levinson, I'm Special Agent Addison Shine, and this is Special Agent Javier Esposito."

"You're here about what happened to Roland, Samuel, and Catherine," Levinson said, not a question but a statement. "The officers assigned to protect me mentioned they died under suspicious circumstances."

"That's correct," Javier confirmed. "All three died from what appeared to be severe allergic reactions."

"Tragic," Levinson said, his expression appropriately solemn. "We worked closely together at Helix. Roland on the ethics side, Sam in research, Catherine in marketing."

"All on Allergene," Addison noted.

There was a subtle shift in Levinson's posture—a slight tensing, almost imperceptible. "Yes, among other projects. Allergene was just one of many drugs in Helix's development pipeline."

"But a significant one," Addison pressed. "One that you were personally invested in as research director."

"It showed promise," Levinson acknowledged cautiously. "Before the complications arose, of course."

"Complications," Javier repeated. "You mean the three deaths during clinical trials."

Levinson removed his glasses, polishing them with a cloth from his desk drawer. Addison knew this was nothing more than a delaying tactic; she'd seen it repeatedly over the years. "Unfortunate anomalies," he said. "Statistically, adverse events occur in every clinical trial. That's why we have the process to identify potential issues before wider release."

"Dr. Levinson," Addison leaned forward slightly, "we have reason to believe the deaths of your former colleagues are directly connected to Allergene."

He looked surprised to hear this, though not quite shocked. "Connected how?" His voice remained steady, but his fingers tightened around his glasses.

"The compound found in their systems bears striking similarities to Allergene's molecular structure," Javier explained. "We got that directly from someone who once worked on it. It’s almost as if someone modified the drug to trigger severe histamine responses."

Levinson's professional composure cracked slightly. "That's an extraordinary claim," he said, his tone sharp. "Allergene was shelved three years ago. Production stopped completely."

"And yet," Addison said, "all three victims show evidence of exposure to a compound remarkably similar to it. A compound that appears to lie dormant in the system until activated by a second substance."

"Which mimics exactly how the trial participants died," Javier added. "Initial exposure followed by a delayed, severe reaction with no apparent trigger."

Levinson replaced his glasses, his expression hardening. "I don't appreciate what you're implying, Agents. The trial deaths were thoroughly investigated and found to be unrelated to Allergene directly. Correlation is not causation; that’s a basic scientific principle."

"We're not implying anything, Dr. Levinson," Addison said calmly. "We're following evidence. And that evidence suggests someone with intimate knowledge of Allergene has weaponized it against the people responsible for its development."

"Weaponized?" Levinson stood abruptly. "This is absurd. Allergene was a breakthrough antihistamine designed to help millions of allergy sufferers. Yes, we had setbacks. Yes, there were unexplained adverse events. That's to be expected with pharmaceutical developments. Sometimes promising drugs don't make it to the market."

"Three people died during those trials," Javier reminded him. "Just as three of your colleagues have now died in nearly identical circumstances."

"Coincidence," Levinson insisted, but his voice lacked conviction. In fact, Addison could see in his eyes that he knew for a fact this was not the case.

"Dr. Levinson," Addison said, "we're pursuing a warrant for Helix's complete Allergene trial records. We believe the answer to these murders lies in understanding exactly what happened to those trial participants who died. If there is anything you might know…anything we’ll find in those records anyway…you should tell us."

Levinson's face flushed, and he got to his feet again. Given the nature of how calm he'd been at first, it was an unexpected reaction. And as far as Addison was concerned, it screamed of suspicion. "This meeting is over," he roared. "I've cooperated with the protection detail out of caution, but I won't sit here and listen to unfounded accusations about a project my team poured years into developing."

Addison recognized the defense mechanism—an attack on their theory rather than engagement with the facts. Pressing further would only entrench his position. She's seen it countless times over the years.

"We understand," she said, standing. And really, she did. Three people he'd known were now dead, all closely linked to something he'd spent a good deal of time on. Of course, there was still a very small suspicion- to her, anyway, Levinson did indeed fit the profile of their killer. But for right now, she thought she'd keep that to herself. There simply wasn't enough evidence. "Thank you for your time, Dr. Levinson," she added. "The officers will continue their protection detail for your safety until we have the killer is custody."

“Fine,” he said, nearly spitting the word at them.

As they stood to leave, Addison noticed a folder on Levinson's desk, partially covered by other papers but with a corner visible. She caught a glimpse of the bottom quarter of a page. She saw a portion of a name—Uuel Mitchell—and then a scrawled signature.

She found this weird as hell, but managed to remain neutral and calm as she and Javier exited the office. Outside Levinson's office, they walked slowly toward the reception area, Addison's mind working through what she'd seen.

“I saw something just before we left,” she whispered to him as they neared the lobby. “Samuel Mitchell's signature on some kind of a document in Levinson's office," she said quietly to Javier. “Right there on his desk, as if he’d just recently been looking over them."

"Well, that’s certainly interesting. We can go back and demand he show it to us."

“He doesn’t have to…not unless we have probable cause to search his office. And right now, we don’t have that. So…”

“So, what?”

Addison smiled softly at him as they entered back into the lobby. "So, I need you to cause a distraction."

He raised an eyebrow. "What's on your mind?"

Addison gave him a knowing smile, a silent request for trust without explanation.

“Oh, damn,” he said, returning her smile. “We’re about to get into trouble, aren’t we?”

She only shrugged and said, “We’ll see.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The clear morning air hit with a sharp chill as the figure slipped out of the side entrance of Levinson's clinic. The small block of office buildings stood quiet, their windows reflecting the early sunlight. Professional. Sterile. Perfect for a wellness clinic that promised health while hiding secrets.

The figure paused, taking a moment to smooth their wrinkled clothes, the rhythm of a steady heartbeat finally beginning to slow. The past ten minutes had been unexpected. It had raised their stress for sure…and that was not something they were accustomed to.

FBI agents. They'd identified themselves as such, and the words had carried clearly from the front desk through the hallway. The figure had frozen mid-step, caught between rooms in Levinson's precious clinic, fingers still damp from applying the first dose of the compound to Levinson's personal coffee mug.

FBI. Already.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way. Mitchell, Lawson, and Weber—all three deaths had been dismissed as unfortunate medical events. Tragic allergic reactions. Natural, if unusual. There shouldn't have been heat. Not this soon. Not before Hammond. Certainly not before Levinson himself began to feel the first symptoms.

They moved across the parking lot with deliberate calm. Running attracted attention. Fear attracted attention. And right now, attention was the enemy. AS far as anyone knew, they’d just come by for a referral or to make an appointment.

The conversation at the front desk replayed in the killer's mind. The agents hadn't come for a random wellness check. They'd asked for Levinson specifically, and the receptionist's voice had contained that particular note of concern when she'd called back to his office. They were looking at connections. Looking at Allergene. They had to be. And if that was the case, they were moving fast.

But those stupid agents had it backward.

The figure smiled slightly. The FBI agents didn't see Levinson as a potential victim. They saw him as a suspect…at least that’s how it had seemed. That was useful. Let them waste time interrogating a future corpse while the real work continued.

They approached their car and unlocked the door, the sound sharp against the quiet morning. They slid into the driver's seat, placing a small bag carefully on the passenger side. Inside lay the evidence of the morning's work: gloves, shoe covers, the empty vial that had contained the final stage of the compound.

The FBI presence complicated things, sure, but complications could be managed. Science was about variables and adaptation. About looking at unexpected results and adjusting the experiment accordingly.

Soon enough, Levinson would begin to feel the first symptoms. A slight tightness in his chest. Difficulty taking a deep breath. Nothing alarming, not at first. By then, the second dose would be ready. And by the time the FBI realized Levinson wasn't their killer, it would be too late for both him and Hammond.

The compound was brilliant, really. A modified version of Allergene itself, twisted to exploit the very mechanism that had made the drug so promising—and ultimately so deadly. Poetic justice that the people who had created it would now experience its effects firsthand. That the decision-makers who had deemed certain deaths "statistically acceptable" would become statistics themselves.

Starting the car, they glanced back at Levinson's clinic. The agents were still inside, questioning a man who thought wellness could be packaged and sold for two hundred bucks an hour. A man who had helped push Allergene through despite the warning signs…despite the deaths.

Through the rearview mirror, Levinson's clinic grew smaller as they drive away, its glass facade gleaming in the morning sun. Inside, two FBI agents were asking questions, looking for connections, hunting for a killer they believed might be Levinson himself.

They were good at their jobs, no doubt. Smart enough to see the Allergene link. Smart enough to question the coincidence of three deaths among people connected to the drug. But they didn't understand the pattern. Not yet.

Levinson wasn't the killer. Just another name on a list of people who had valued profit over human life. Who had calculated acceptable losses and deemed certain deaths worthwhile collateral damage in the pursuit of pharmaceutical gold.

No, Levinson wasn’t the killer.

In fact, he’d be the next to die.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

After a very quick conversation that, quite frankly, made Addison feel like a kid about to pull a prank, she approached the receptionist’s desk once again. She did so with a slight apologetic look on her face.

“So sorry to bother you again,” she said. "But could you point me to the restroom before we leave?"

"Of course," Clara smiled. "Down the hall, third door on the right."

"Thank you."

As Addison started in that direction, she just barely caught a glimpse of Javier out of the corner of her eye. He was pretending to text something on his phone. And in a few seconds, he would approach the receptionist—Clara, her nametag had read—with the distraction. A lame distraction, sure, but it would get the job done.

As for her part in this plan, she already knew where the bathroom was. She’d spotted it when Clara had led them down to Levinson’s office. When she came to the restroom, she could see his door just ahead and on the other side of the hallway passed by his office. The door was closed, but she could hear him on the phone inside, his voice carrying that particular tone of professional condescension he seemed to reserve for anyone who challenged his authority.

She stepped into the bathroom, closing the door almost completely—but not quite. She pressed her ear to the crack and listened. Then, just as planned, she heard Javier’s voice about forty seconds later as he also approached the reception desk.

"We’re really just pestering you this morning, aren’t we?" she heard him say to Clara. "But I do have one more question for Dr. Levinson before we go. Something that just came in. Could you let him know? He can just come out here if he wants. It should only take a second."

Addison then heard Clara, her voice barely audible at all through the door and the distance. "Dr. Levinson? Agent Esposito has one more question before they leave." She paused, listening. "Yes, he’s right here. Says it should just take a second." Then, after a moment, Clara spoke to Javier again, saying: "He'll be right out.”

Addison pressed herself against the wall as Levinson's door opened just a few seconds later. He emerged, straightening his tie, and walked toward the reception area without even glancing in the direction of the restroom. Why would he, after all?

The moment he turned the corner, Addison slipped out of the restroom and across the hallway into his office. She left the door open behind her so she’d have a quick and easy escape. She and Javier had agreed that he could only hold Levinson out there for three minutes or so before he got suspicious or overly irritated…so she was going to have to act fast.

She moved quickly to his desk, where the papers remained just as she'd seen them earlier. Pulling out the paper with Mitchell's signature, she found exactly what she'd suspected—correspondence between the two doctors dated just three months ago. More than that, it appeared to be correspondence attached to what looked like old reports.

The first letter made her pulse quicken:

Marcus,

The board continues to block my attempts to revive Allergene. They remain fixated on the liability issues from the trial deaths rather than seeing the potential with my modifications. I've isolated the compound that caused the anaphylactic reactions and redesigned the molecular structure to eliminate that pathway entirely.

I'm convinced this could still be the revolutionary antihistamine we envisioned. If Helix won't proceed, perhaps your clinic could provide an alternative testing ground. Your patients trust you implicitly—they'd be ideal candidates for these preliminary trials.

The FDA doesn't need to know until we have solid results to present. By then, the profit potential will override any procedural concerns at Helix.

Let me know your thoughts, Sam

Addison's eyes widened. Unauthorized testing. Outside FDA protocols. On unsuspecting patients. It was like little bullets for a gun no one had quite figured out how to use yet. She quickly read ahead, finding detailed notes and charts documenting responses to the modified Allergene compound.

Another letter caught her attention:

Marcus,

The initial results from your patients are encouraging. Subject 7's histamine response was completely suppressed with no observable side effects. I believe we're ready to increase the dosage for the next round.

Hammond is still blocking official channels, but he's become increasingly isolated at Helix. The board is starting to question his leadership after the Neurocept failure. If we can present compelling data from your patients, we might be able to force his hand.

I've prepared the next batch with the adjusted formula. Remember, these need to be administered at least 48 hours apart to properly assess the binding mechanism.

Keep detailed notes. This is our chance to redeem Allergene's reputation—and our own.

Sam

She continued flipping through pages until she found a thicker folder marked "Trial Data (Original)" at the back of the stack. Inside were documents bearing Helix Pharmaceuticals letterhead and stamped "CONFIDENTIAL." This was where she had seen Mitchell’s signature; he was signing off on the data.

From what she could tell, these were the original Allergene trial results—the very ones they were waiting on a warrant to access. She scanned quickly, focusing on the "Adverse Events" section. Twenty-one participants had experienced severe anaphylactic reactions. Eight had died despite emergency intervention.

Her breath caught when she found a handwritten note at the bottom of one page: "Hammond insisted these numbers be adjusted in the final report. Official count: 5 deaths, classified as 'unknown etiology, possibly unrelated to trial substance.'"

Falsifying reports to the FDA was a criminal offense. She quickly snapped photos of the most damning documents with her phone, carefully replacing everything as she'd found it. Her heart was slamming in her chest as she tried to process just how big this was. This went far beyond their case and might very well knock the very foundation out from under Helix. This was just a man in black or two away from being a full-blown conspiracy.

The sound of voices in the hallway froze her in place. She moved quickly toward the door, but it swung open before she could reach it.

Levinson stood in the doorway, his face darkening from surprise to fury in an instant.

"What the hell are you doing in my office?" he demanded, stepping inside and closing the door firmly behind him.

Addison straightened, shifting seamlessly into professional mode despite being caught red-handed. "Finding evidence of unauthorized clinical trials and falsified FDA reports," she said, nodding toward his desk. "Care to explain why you're testing a modified version of Allergene on your patients without their informed consent?"

"You have no right to be in here," Levinson sputtered, his face flushing. "This is a private medical facility. Those are confidential records."

"Confidential records of illegal drug trials," Addison countered. "And falsified data from the original Allergene studies. There weren't eleven deaths in those trials—there were twenty-one. You and Hammond covered it up."

"You don't understand," Levinson said, lowering his voice and moving toward his desk. "Mitchell fixed the problem. The modified version is completely safe."

"That's not for you and Mitchell to decide outside of proper protocols," Addison said. "You're conducting illegal drug trials on unsuspecting patients, Dr. Levinson."

"You can't prove anything."

"The correspondence between you and Mitchell says otherwise. As does the Helix data you shouldn't have. I could arrest you right now for medical fraud, endangerment, conspiracy—"

"Wait," Levinson interrupted, suddenly looking unsteady. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he loosened his tie with trembling fingers. "I think we should discuss this rationally."

"I agree," Addison said. "So here are your options: you can tell me everything you know about the Allergene trials, the modifications Mitchell made, and your unauthorized testing—or I can arrest you and we can continue this conversation in a small and very humid interrogation room."

Levinson collapsed into his chair, tugging at his collar. His complexion had gone from red to ashen in seconds. He shook his head as he took a stumbling step inside the office.

"I need a minute," he said, voice strained. His eyes were like those of a cornered animal as he tried to make sense of the situation…trying to figure a way out of this. "I need to... I just need some water."

He reached for the bottle on his desk, a metal tumbler. As he did, Addison saw that his hand was shaking so badly that water sloshed over the sides. He drank greedily, then set the glass down with a clunk.

"Mitchell believed in Allergene," he said, words coming faster now. "We all did. It was revolutionary—a true breakthrough in treating severe allergies. The trial deaths were a fluke. Statistical anomalies."

"Twenty-one people aren't 'statistical anomalies,'" Addison said coldly. “And if they continued to die because you and your buddies fudged the numbers, some may even see that as murder.”

"Mitchell identified the problem," Levinson continued, ignoring her comment. "A molecular structure that triggered cascade reactions in certain genetic profiles. He modified it. Fixed it. But Hammond and the board wouldn't listen. Too afraid of lawsuits. Too concerned with their stock prices."

He paused, tugging at his collar again. His breathing had become labored and his face was getting even redder.

"Are you all right?" Addison asked, studying him more carefully now.

"Fine," he gasped. "Just... overwhelmed. The patients we tested on... they volunteered. They signed waivers. They…"

He stopped here, his face going slowly slack. His lips parting as he struggled to inhale. One hand went to his throat, fingers clawing at his skin. As his eyes grew wide, Addison understood what was happening—and felt like an idiot for not realizing it about ten seconds earlier.

"Javier!" Addison called sharply, recognizing the signs. "He's going into anaphylactic shock!"

She rushed to the door, poking her head out into the hallway. "I need help in here! And call 911!"

Turning back to Levinson, she saw his eyes had widened with panic. He had fallen slightly, catching himself on the edge of the desk. His water had fallen to the floor, soaking into the rug. His breathing came in short, desperate gasps and tiny hives were appearing on his neck, spreading rapidly.

"Dr. Levinson, do you have an EpiPen?" she asked, rushing to his side.

He couldn't speak, but he managed a small head shake. No…no EpiPen.

"Does the clinic keep emergency medications?" she asked, supporting him as he began to slide from the chair.

This time he nodded. His skin was blotchy now, throat visibly swelling. This was textbook anaphylaxis. She knew that without medication, there was no way to stop it. And even if they could find the right medication somewhere within this building, it might already be too late. One thing she did know for certain, though, was that Levinson was surely not the killer.

Addison heard footsteps running down the hallway as she lowered Levinson to the floor, loosening his tie completely and undoing the top buttons of his shirt.

Javier burst into the room, phone already pressed to his ear. "911," he mouthed to her, quickly giving their location and the nature of the emergency.

"Stay with me, Dr. Levinson," she said, placing him in the recovery position. "Ambulance is on the way."

But his airway was closing rapidly. Each breath was a terrible, strained wheeze. His fingers clutched at Addison's arm, panic in his eyes as his face started to slowly turn from red to a blotchy shade of purple.

"Check for an emergency kit," she told Javier, who was still on the phone. "There has to be epinephrine somewhere in this clinic."

Javier disappeared into the hallway, still on the phone while Addison monitored Levinson's pulse. Rapid, then weakening. His chest barely moved with each attempted breath. In Addison’s opinion, it wasn’t looking good.

"Hold on," she told him, though she wasn't sure he could hear her anymore. His eyes had gone unfocused, rolled partway back. And in the space of just a few breaths, Addison saw the situation as if from outside of her body. It was darkly ironic, really: they had found the fourth victim and now it seemed that they were pretty much helpless to do anything other than watch him die.

CHAPTER NINENTEEN

Javier returned with a red emergency kit about thirty seconds later. When he entered the room, Clara came in behind him. She was crying and clearly terrified over the entire situation, her hands clutched to her chest as if she was the one having difficulty breathing. "Clara found it in the treatment room," Javier said, dropping to his knees beside Addison and Levinson.

Addison ripped it open, finding basic first aid supplies and, thankfully, an emergency epinephrine injector. Addison didn't hesitate, jabbing it into Levinson's outer thigh and holding it in for the required ten seconds.

The effect wasn't immediate. Levinson's eyes remained wide with panic, his skin mottled with rapidly spreading hives. His lips had taken on a bluish tinge that Addison recognized all too well from her years of forensic work – the precursor to tissue death from oxygen deprivation.

"Come on," she muttered, keeping her fingers pressed against his carotid artery. His pulse fluttered weakly beneath her touch, rapid and thready.

"Ambulance is three minutes out," Javier said with the phone still pressed to his ear. "What else can we do?"

"Another dose in five minutes if he doesn't improve," Addison replied, but also thought: If he makes it that long. "Clara, do you have any other epinephrine injectors?"

The receptionist shook her head, tears streaming down her face. "I don't think so. We're not – this isn't supposed to happen here."

"What about antihistamines? Benadryl? Anything?"

"In the cabinet above the sink in the treatment room," Clara managed.

"Get it," Addison ordered. Clara nodded and ran from the office.

Thirty seconds ticked by. Then forty-five. Just when Addison was considering starting CPR, Levinson's breathing eased fractionally. His chest rose in a ragged inhale that sounded marginally less constricted.

"There we go," she encouraged, though she knew it was far from over. The epinephrine would only buy them minutes; it wasn’t going to stop it.

Clara returned with a bottle of liquid Benadryl and handed it to Addison. She wrenched the top free and did her best to get Levinson to swallow a small amount of, though most dribbled from the corner of his mouth. His throat was too swollen for proper swallowing. It felt a bit pointless, as she really didn’t think Benadryl would do a damn thing.

"It's not going to be enough," she told Javier quietly. "This isn't a typical allergic reaction."

"What do you mean?"

"It's the compound from the other victims – I'm sure of it. The epinephrine helps temporarily because it's a vasoconstrictor, but it doesn't address the underlying mechanism."

"What can they do for him at the hospital?"

"I don't know," Addison admitted. "Without knowing exactly what the compound is..."

Sirens wailed outside, drawing closer. Javier went to guide the paramedics in while Addison stayed with Levinson, one hand on his pulse, the other on his shoulder. The injection seemed to still be helping, but she knew it was only a matter of time before he started going downhill again.

"We're going to figure this out," she told him, unsure if he could hear her. "Just stay with us."

The paramedics burst in with the strange sort of calm they were known for – urgency in their step but all business and practiced ease in their expressions. There were two of them, a man and woman in their thirties, moving with the coordinated precision that comes from years of emergency response.

"What have we got?" the female paramedic asked, kneeling beside Levinson.

"Anaphylactic shock, onset approximately six minutes ago," Addison reported. "We administered 0.3mg of epinephrine about four minutes ago with slight improvement. Some liquid Benadryl orally, but swallowing was impaired. No known allergies as far as we're aware...."

"You medical?" the paramedic asked, already placing an oxygen mask over Levinson's face.

"FBI, but a former pathologist."

The paramedic nodded, accepting this without further question as she inserted an IV line with remarkable speed. Addison had to make herself stay focused rather than watching the stellar work. "We'll start a saline drip and another dose of epi,” the paramedic said. After a quick check of Levinson’s vitals, she said, “Pulse is 142, BP 82/40. Let's get him loaded."

Levinson was transferred to a stretcher, his body looking suddenly frail under the straps. The male paramedic hung a bag of fluid while his partner injected more epinephrine directly into the IV. It all happened very quickly and Addison was so wrapped up in making sure Levinson didn’t die before making it out of the building that she felt she was forgetting something.

"Wait," Addison said as they prepared to move Levinson out of the room. "This isn't a standard allergic reaction. It's a synthetic compound similar to one that killed three other people this week. Standard treatment protocols might not be sufficient."

The paramedics exchanged a glance. "We'll relay that to the ED," the woman said. "Are you coming with us?"

"Yes, she said, surprised at the answer. She supposed she felt the need to see it through now that she had watched this man struggle for his life right in front of her eyes. Also, as morbid as it may seem, she figured it might be good for the case if she could see every single stage of how this compound worked.

"I'll secure the scene here and meet you there," Javier said.

Addison nodded and followed the stretcher through the clinic. Staff and patients had gathered in the hallway, watching with the universal expression of helpless concern that emergencies always drew. Clara trailed behind, still crying softly.

"He'll be in good hands," Addison told her. "Make sure nobody enters his office. It's now part of an active investigation."

Clara nodded numbly as they reached the ambulance. Though the sky outside was bright and blue, Addison barely noticed; everything felt grey and colorless to her as she locked all of her focus on Levinson and the paramedics. She climbed in after the stretcher, taking a seat where she could see Levinson's face. His eyes had closed, but the monitors showed he was still fighting.

"Seattle Memorial, ten minutes," the driver announced as they pulled away, sirens blaring.

The female paramedic – her name tag read Martinez – worked steadily over Levinson, checking vitals and adjusting the oxygen flow. Her face was a sheet of slate and Addison couldn’t read it—which was saying a lot, given that she was usually great and picking up the mist minute of expression in suspects.

"You said this is similar to other cases?" Martinez said.

"Three deaths in the past week, all presenting as anaphylaxis but with no known allergens found in the victims' systems," Addison explained. "All connected to a pharmaceutical company and a specific drug that was shelved three years ago after multiple deaths in clinical trials."

Martinez's expression sharpened with professional interest. "What was the drug?"

"Allergene. It was supposed to be a revolutionary antihistamine."

"Ironic."

"Exactly. We think the killer is using a modified version of the drug itself to cause these reactions."

"How does it work?" Addison wasn’t sure if Martinez was asking out of pure curiosity, or in the hope that there might be a kernel of knowledge buried in the details--something that might help save Levinson’s life.

"It's a two-stage compound. The first part lies dormant in the system, and the second triggers the reaction, sometimes days later."

Martinez frowned. "That complicates treatment significantly. Any specific antidote?"

"Not that we know of yet."

The ambulance swerved around a corner, momentarily disrupting their conversation as Martinez steadied herself and checked Levinson's oxygen levels. "Saturation dropping. Eighty-six percent." She increased the flow on the mask, working almost mechanically. It was rather impressive to watch.

Levinson's condition deteriorated rapidly over the next two minutes. His lips, visible around the oxygen mask, turned a deeper blue. The monitor showed his blood pressure plummeting despite the epinephrine. Addison became more and more certain that this was all for nothing…that he’d be dead before they arrived at the hospital.

"He's crashing," Martinez said, her voice calm but urgent. "Starting additional interventions."

She pulled out a laryngoscope. "I need to intubate. His airway's closing completely."

Addison moved back to give her space, watching as Martinez expertly inserted a breathing tube. It was a difficult procedure given the swelling, but she managed it with practiced skill. Addison suddenly felt very much in the way and wished she’d just stayed with Javir and drove to the hospital with him. Still, she watched and studied, trying to learn everything about the way this compound progressed.

"Come on, Dr. Levinson," Addison murmured. Beyond the immediate crisis, her mind was already cataloging the progression of symptoms, comparing them to what they knew about the other victims. The similarities were undeniable.

After what felt like an eternity, the ambulance pulled up to the emergency entrance of Seattle Memorial with a squeal of brakes. The back doors flung open to reveal a waiting trauma team – two doctors and several nurses ready to receive their patient. It was organized chaos, a stream of efficient work as they removed Levinson from the ambulance and escorted him swiftly inside through the sliding doors.

Martinez delivered a rapid, concise report as they wheeled Levinson inside, Addison following close behind. "Male, mid-fifties, severe anaphylactic reaction of unknown origin. Multiple doses of epinephrine with minimal response. Intubated en route. BP is 70/35 and falling. Possible non-standard compound involved according to FBI."

They rushed through the automatic doors into the surprisingly tranquil emergency department. Levinson was rushed down the central hallway and Addison could hear conversations about transferring him to a trauma bay. Addison found herself pushed to the periphery as medical staff swarmed around the bed. And that was fine with her. She was pretty much out of her depth at this point.

A new doctor entered – a woman in her forties with a commanding presence that parted the crowd around the bed. She took in the situation with a glance at the monitors and Levinson's condition.

"History?" she asked, already examining Levinson's airway.

Martinez repeated her report, adding, "FBI agent present says this is similar to three other fatal cases this week."

The doctor glanced at Addison. "Agent?"

"Addison Shine, FBI. I'm a forensic pathologist. Dr. Levinson is the fourth victim of what we believe is a targeted poisoning using a modified pharmaceutical compound. The other three victims died tight away with no real shot at receiving emergency intervention."

The doctor absorbed this without breaking her rhythm as she examined Levinson. "What's the compound?"

"A modified version of an experimental antihistamine called Allergene. It causes an anaphylaxis-like reaction but doesn't respond normally to standard treatments. Traditional antihistamines and epinephrine only provide temporary relief."

"Any suggestions for treatment?"

"Based on the autopsy findings from the other victims, I'd recommend focusing on stabilizing mast cell activity directly. The compound appears to target specific histamine receptor sites rather than triggering a systemic IgE response."

The doctor nodded. "Let's add H1 and H2 blockers at maximum doses. Prepare for potential ECMO if oxygenation doesn't improve. And get toxicology down here now."

And with that, the team around Levinson moved him to another hallway, rushing him to a trauma bay. Addison remained behind, watching them go. But she could tell from the hardened faces of a few of the members, specifically the doctor she had just spoken to, that they did not have high hopes for Levinson.

And now all that was left for Addison to do was wait. She could only wait for news of Levinson’s fate…for the damned warrant to come through for the Helix documents, for Javier to arrive, for…

She muttered a curse under her breath as she walked slowly into the waiting room. She sat down and looked at her watch. She assumed Javier would be there shortly. She checked her phone, making sure there was no news from Loomis. Maybe the warrant had come through and she’d missed it in the craziness of the past fifteen minutes.

But there was nothing. She started composing a text to Loomis for an update but only made it four words before she sensed someone walking her way. She looked up and saw the same doctor she'd spoken with just ten minutes ago.

With a stilted frown, she said, “He didn’t make it. I’m so sorry.” She sighed and then added, "Time of death, 9:42 AM."

The words hung in the air as the team stepped back from the bed. Addison felt a familiar hollowness – not the shock of unexpected loss, but the grim confirmation of what she'd suspected from the moment she saw those first hives spreading across Levinson's neck.

"I'm sorry," the doctor said, approaching Addison. "We tried everything we could think of."

"I know. Thank you." She made herself stay professional, remaining on top of the case as best she could. "His body needs to be transferred to the FBI medical examiner immediately. It's crucial evidence in an ongoing investigation."

"I'll make the arrangements." With a small nod, the doctor headed back out of the waiting room and down the hallway.

Addison also left the waiting room, only she stepped back outside into the crisp morning air. She pulled out her phone to call Javier. He answered on the first ring.

"Levinson didn't make it," she said without preamble.

A beat of silence. "Damn. I was hoping..."

"Me too. But this does mean we were wrong about him potentially being a suspect. I’d say we were way off there, as he turned out to be the fourth victim. Four, Javi.”

"Which means Hammond is likely next. We've got agents looking for him, but so far nothing."

"And the documents from Levinson's office? What about them?"

"Secured and being processed as evidence. There may be some legal loopholes but given that he’s a victim and these documents may give us some answers, I think Loomis will do some hand-waving to make it okay. But Addison, we've hit another obstacle.”

“What is it?”

“I was just notified that Helix's legal team showed up at the courthouse the moment our warrant application was filed. They're fighting it with everything they've got."

“Loomis called you?”

“No, her assistant. Loomis is neck deep in trying to push it through right now.”

Addison sat down on a nearby iron bench, suddenly feeling the weight of the morning. "Helix will fight tooth and nail. They know exactly what we'll find in those records."

"I know. This is going to get messy.”

“Then I guess we just need to find a way to crack this without that warrant.”

She heard Javier sigh. "I’m heading to the hospital to pick you up right now. Where to after that?"

"Back at the field office. We need to regroup and figure out our next move.”

"Sounds like a plan. See you soon."

Addison ended the call and looked down to the parking lot where the morning sun was sparkling off of windshields. Four victims…and while they did indeed have answers at their fingertips, they still weren’t helping. That warrant…what the hell had they been thinking? Companies like Helix knew the ways of the court. They’d keep it tied up for weeks, if not months. Suddenly, the hope of the warrant felt like a shot in the dark.

She also began to understand that Helix seemed perfectly content to let more people die rather than reveal those names. The realization hardened something in Addison, made her start to feel an anger that she rarely felt towards a case.

She made a vow to herself right then and there on that iron bench outside of the emergency room exit. There would be no more victims. Not if she could help it.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Addison hadn't eaten in nearly eighteen hours. Her stomach had been complaining for the last six of them, but it wasn't until she'd been informed of Marcus Levinson’s death that her body finally overpowered her determination. She'd grabbed a burger from the dive across the street from the field office, one of those places with grease older than some of the junior agents.

The FBI's Seattle Field Office wasn't known for its aesthetic appeal. Most of the building looked exactly as you'd expect a government facility to look—utilitarian, efficient, and about as inviting as a tax audit. But there was one small exception in the form of a small green space tucked behind the building. It was optimistically called a garden but that was being far too kind.

Addison pushed through the metal door that led to this neglected patch of nature. A concrete patio extended from the building, dotted with three picnic tables that had seen better decades. Beyond them, a narrow strip of actual green space circled a lone maple tree. Someone had planted hostas and rhododendrons years ago, then seemingly forgotten about them. They grew in awkward, untended clumps, fighting for territory with dandelions and wild grass. A bird feeder hung from the maple, but Addison couldn't remember ever seeing it filled.

She sat at the farthest picnic table, as far from the building as possible, and unwrapped her burger. The smell of grilled meat and melted cheese hit her nose, and her stomach growled in response. She took a bite and chewed mechanically. It was good—better than good, actually—but she barely registered the taste.

Javier would be on a call with Loomis now, updating her on Levinson's death and their current lack of leads, all while Loomis continued to work in a push to get that warrant approved. Javier had volunteered to take that bullet, knowing Addison needed space. He’d seen it on her face without her saying a word, and had pretty much insisted. He’d really known something was amiss when she’s chosen a burger over coffee.

As she ate her burger, she also wrestled with the slow-burning anger she was starting to feel. She knew it stemmed from essentially watching Levinson die, and she was strangely okay with that. She knew it was not wise for agents to act on emotion but she also knew that those same emotions were usually what helped push agents to the edge, to do whatever was necessary to close a case.

She went over it all in her head, trying to make sense of it all. Four people dead. Four lives snuffed out by a killer who had found a way to turn allergies into a murder weapon. And they were no closer to identifying the culprit than when Mitchell had first collapsed in his lab.

She'd been so sure Levinson was their guy. The correspondence between him and Mitchell about unauthorized testing had practically screamed "guilty." But killers didn't typically dose themselves with their own murder weapon.

She wiped a smear of ketchup from her lip and stared at the gnarled trunk of the maple tree. If she were being honest with herself, it wasn't just this case that was eating at her. It was everything.

Jane's diary still had answers waiting in it, the most recent of which had been about Leslie—a homeschooled neighbor who'd committed suicide at twenty-two. A girl with mysterious gaps in her records. A girl who might have known something about Jane's disappearance.

And then there was Fearmonger. The case that had haunted the bureau for months. The killer who left no marks, no evidence, no cause of death that made any sense. The case that Loomis had pulled her from despite her breakthrough during the autopsy she had been specifically requested to conduct.

It all made her feel as if her brain had been split into about five pieces and being pulled by hooks in completely different directions. She set down her burger and leaned back, breathing in the air of the surprisingly clear morning. Sometimes it felt like she was running in place, legs pumping furiously but covering no distance. Each time she got close to an answer—any answer—it slipped through her fingers like smoke.

"Damn," she whispered.

A familiar weight settled in her chest, that overwhelming sense of failure she'd carried since watching Jane disappear into the Christmas shopping crowd. Since realizing that the few minutes she'd taken her eyes off her sister had cost them all more than they could ever recover.

She shook her head, hating that she was still beating herself up over this. It wasn't helpful. It wasn't productive. And it wasn't going to catch their killer.

What she needed was access to those trial records. Twenty-one deaths during the Allergene trials. Twenty-four potential motives for revenge. Twenty-one families that might harbor someone with the knowledge and ability to turn a failed antihistamine into a murder weapon.

But Helix's legal team would have the judge tied up in proprietary information claims for days, maybe weeks. It was time that the next victim didn't have. She hated that the greed of a corporation was keeping them from their answers. She took it almost personally…and that was another coal to help stoke the fire of anger still burning in her.

Addison crumpled the burger wrapper and tossed it in the nearby trash can. She sat idly for a moment, thinking. What she needed was someone on the inside at Helix. Someone who could access those records without waiting for a warrant. Someone who...

Her thoughts skidded to a halt as a possibility presented itself. It was risky. Probably illegal. Definitely against Bureau protocol.

But maybe, just maybe, she already had a contact who hated Helix as much as she was starting to.

Gabriel Wexler. He fit the role for sure: a pharmaceutical chemist whose daughter had died of an allergic reaction. The man with an axe to grind against Helix…a man who'd helped her and Javier identify similarities between the murder compound and Allergene's structure.

Did he still have connections at Helix? Access to their databases?

Addison pulled out her phone and tapped the screen, checking the time. It was nearing 11:30 in the morning. She figured he’d probably be working at the university, but she could at least try. He had, after all, told them to call if they needed further help.

She dialed his number, her pulse quickening with each ring. She knew what she was about to suggest was reckless…maybe even a little desperate. This was exactly what Loomis would tell her not to do. Maybe even something Loomis would threaten her with consequences for.

The phone rang three times before it was answered.

"Wexler." His voice was curt, distracted. She’d clearly caught him in the middle of something.

"Dr. Wexler, it's Special Agent Addison Shine."

A pause. "Agent Shine. What can I do for you? Is there news about the investigation?"

"Not exactly." Addison glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one had ventured out into the rain. "I'm calling about something... unofficial."

The silence on the other end stretched for several seconds. "Go on," he finally said, his tone cautious but interested.

"We need access to the complete Allergene trial records. The names of all twenty-one people who died during those trials. We’ve filed for a warrant for the information but—"

“Oh, you can forget about that,” Wexler interrupted. “Helix will keep you bouncing around in court for months.”

“Yes, we’re already learning that…though, we pretty much expected it.” Addison took a deep breath. What she was about to propose could end her career. But if it saved lives and caught a killer... "That's why I'm calling you. I was wondering if you still have any connections at Helix. Any way to access their records without waiting for the warrant."

Wexler chuckled, though there was very little humor in it. "Are you asking me to hack into my former employer's database, Agent Shine?"

It was out there now. If Wexler chose to do so, he could report this to Loomis. And if that happened, Addison would face repercussions. Nothing too serious, but definite black marks on her record.

"I'm asking if you'd like to help me stick it to the company that buried evidence that could have saved your daughter's life," Addison replied, her voice surprisingly steady despite the thundering of her heart.

A harsh laugh came through the phone. "You know this isn't exactly legal, right?"

"I'm aware. But I just watched a man die gasping for air because Helix values profits over people…Marcus Levinson. And after watching that and now having four dead people at my feet, I don't particularly care about legal right now."

She was surprised at how little hesitation from the other end of the phone. “What’s your plan?" Wexler asked.

"I need those names. And I need them before we get another victim. We think Richard Hammond might be next but no one can get in touch with him…which makes me think he might already be dead."

"And what if I get caught?"

"I'll take full responsibility. I’ll say I coerced you."

Wexler snorted. "No one who's met you would believe that. I’ve only met you for a total of about twenty minutes and then this conversation…and that’s already pretty clear to me."

Despite everything, Addison felt her lips twitch toward a smile. "So is that a yes?"

"It's a yes," Wexler said without hesitation. "They need to answer for their crimes and…well, quite frankly, they’ve had this coming for years."

Addison felt a surge of relief wash through her. "And you’re kay with us…stretching the legality a little to get some answers?”

"After what they did—covering up those deaths, burying evidence that could have saved my daughter—legality isn't my primary concern," Wexler replied, his voice hardening. "What do you need from me?"

"Access to the complete Allergene trial records. The names of everyone who died and any information about settlements or families."

"I might still have a way in," he said thoughtfully. "I can’t promise anything, but I can try. I kept in touch with a few people in the research division. Plus, their security protocols were laughable three years ago. I doubt they've improved much."

Addison ran a hand through her hair. "If you get caught—"

"I won't," Wexler cut her off. "And if I do, I'll blame it on you, like you said. So…I'm in. I'll let you know when I have something. I don't know when it'll be, though; I suppose you need it as soon as possible?'

“That would be great, yes.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

"Thank you," she said and ended the call.

She headed for the door, pocketing her phone. Now that the bomb had been thrown out, there was only the explosion to wait for. Well, that and telling Javier what she’d just done. She winched slightly as she headed inside, not sure how he’d take it. But there was only one way to find out.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Back inside, the field office hummed with the usual bureaucratic buzz—phones ringing, keyboards clicking, the occasional burst of laughter. Being that it was coming up on noon, it also smelled of reheated lunches and coffee. Addison pushed through it all like a swimmer against the current, her mind racing ahead to what needed to be done.

She found Javier exactly where she expected him to be—hunched over his laptop in his office. He had loosened his tie and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The fluorescent lights caught the tension in his shoulders as his fingers flew across the keyboard. And, Good Lord, he looked handsome. It was the slightly messy ruffle of his hair that really sold it.

"Any good news?" she asked, dropping into the chair across from him.

Javier looked up, dark circles under his eyes betraying how little sleep he'd gotten over the past seventy-two hours. He shook his head. "Based on what I understand, there's no way this warrant is going to be granted anytime soon... if ever." He ran a hand through his hair, making it even more disheveled. "Helix's legal team is burying the judge in motions. Something about trade secrets and competitive intelligence. We can pretty much forget about getting those records through official channels. If we ever do get it, it’ll be far too late."

"Well..." Addison leaned forward, lowering her voice. "Maybe not."

Javier's eyes narrowed. He knew that tone—it was the one Addison used right before suggesting something that would give their legal counsel a coronary. Or, in their private lives, it usually led to something mischievous.

"What did you do?" he asked.

"I called Gabriel Wexler."

"Wexler? Why?” But the answer apparently came to him as soon as the question was out of his mouth "Tell me you didn't ask him to hack into Helix's database."

"I didn't exactly use the word 'hack.' And besides…he doesn’t think he even needs to hack."

"Jesus Christ, Addison." He stood up, pacing the small confines of their office. "That's not just against protocol, that's against federal law. Computer fraud. Corporate espionage. Take your pick."

“No, not really. He insinuated that he was still on good terms with a few people there…and maybe he had some insider info. I don’t think he’ll be breaking any laws. If we’re at risk of anything here, it’s that I asked him to do it at all.”

"Still…" But she knew he wouldn’t say anything else. She could see the spark of excitement in his eyes, even as he said: “So your solution is to break the law?" He wasn't shouting, but his voice carried the intensity of someone who wanted to.

"My solution is to save a life," Addison countered. "Four people are already dead. How many more need to die while we play by rules that Helix wrote? The fact that they are trying to tie the warrant up in court is proof to me that they’re hiding something."

Javier stopped pacing and looked at her. Really looked at her. Finally, he sighed. "If we get caught—"

"I'll take the fall," she said immediately. "I'll say I coerced Wexler. That you had no knowledge."

"That's not what I was going to say." He moved back to his chair, sitting across from her. "If we get caught, we both go down. Partners, remember?"

Something warmed in Addison's chest, pushing back against the cold dread that had settled there after Levinson's death. "Partners," she agreed.

"So what exactly did you ask Wexler to do?"

"Get us the complete Allergene trial records. Names of all twenty-one victims. Settlement information if he can find it. Literally anything that could help us."

Javier nodded slowly. "And he agreed?"

"Not at first, but…he seemed eager to help at the end of it. I had to play the daughter card, but…" Addison's lips quirked in a half-smile. "Turns out he's been waiting three years to stick it to Helix from the sound of it."

"Can't say I blame him." Javier leaned back in his chair. "Oh, and by the way…while you were plotting corporate espionage, I got some news. The police finally located Richard Hammond."

Addison sat up straighter. "Where?"

"Well, the unofficial story is that he was at some weird meditation retreat where phones are banned for twenty-four hours. At least that's the story he told his wife." A hint of amusement crept into Javier's voice. "He was actually with his mistress in Olympia. He confided this to the cops when they found him and told him about the protective order. I guess he figured a cheating scandal was better than being a murder victim."

"Smart man," Addison muttered. "Where is he now?"

Javier's lips curved into a smirk. "At work, it seems. In the Helix building."

"You're kidding." Addison stared at him in disbelief. "The potential next victim of a serial killer who's targeting Helix executives went back to the office?"

"Hammond claims he has an 'absolutely critical' board meeting that can't be postponed. Said he'd accept police protection but refused to go into hiding." Javier shrugged. "Apparently, quarterly earnings trump personal safety."

“When you’re making the kind of money he does, I have no doubt.”

"We should head over there,” Javier said. “If Hammond's at Helix, that's where the killer will try to deliver the second dose. It would seem risky and stupid, but this killer is very smart."

Addison agreed, turning for the door. But before they could make it to the door, Addison's phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, her eyebrows rising in surprise.

"It's Wexler," she said, answering the call. "Dr. Wexler, that was fast."

Wexler's voice came through crisp and direct. "Yeah, well I want to be done with this as soon as I can. I've got what you want. Now I just need to know where to send it."

“How did you g—”

“Please, can we just get this done? No questions.”

She didn’t like that aspect of it but she also knew better than to argue with a man who had put so much on the line to help them. “Of course.”

"Where can I send it? What email address?"

She rattled off her FBI email, ignoring Javier's raised eyebrow for the moment.

"I'll send it right away," Wexler replied. "And Agent Shine?"

"Yes?"

"Make them pay." The line went dead with that cheesy, albeit menacing line. Addison lowered her phone, a mixture of emotions crossing her face.

"He got it already?" Javier asked.

"Apparently." She stared at her phone as if it might explain Wexler's surprising efficiency. It made her a bit nervous, so she tried to ease it by adding: "At least we'll have the names.” She refreshed her email, waited a moment, then nodded when a new message appeared. "Got it. Forwarding to you now."

Javier pulled up his email on his laptop, already logged in. Addison walked over to his side, pulling his spare chair over. She opened the attachment on her phone while Javier did the same on his laptop. Shoulder to shoulder, they dove into the information Helis had so badly wanted to keep from everyone. And within just the first thirty seconds or so, Addison could see why they were trying to tie it up in court.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Addison stared at her phone screen, scrolling through the Allergene trial data Wexler had sent. The sheer volume was overwhelming—hundreds of pages of clinical notes, participant data, and internal memos that Helix had desperately tried to keep buried. She nearly went to her own office to grab her laptop so she would have a larger screen, but she was so rooted to the material that getting up and moving even for a few minutes seemed like a massive waste of time.

"This is worse than we thought," she said, looking up at Javier. "Look at these internal memos from before they even started human trials."

Javier nodding, his brow furrowing as he read on his laptop. "They knew it was dangerous from as early as the animal testing phase…"

"Not just dangerous—potentially lethal." Addison highlighted a section of text. "Their head immunologist warned that Allergene was binding to histamine receptors in a way they didn't fully understand. It wasn't just blocking the allergic response; it was altering how the receptors functioned."

"And they pushed forward with human trials anyway," Javier said with a bit of anger in his voice. Addison was glad to hear it. It meant she wasn’t the only one who was getting more and more pissed at Helix as they uncovered more information.

Addison scrolled further. "According to this memo from Mitchell to Hammond, they'd already sunk too much money into development to abandon the project. Mitchell wrote that the 'concerning results were statistically insignificant and likely anomalous.' He stated that it could all be fixed and patched up before release.”

"Statistically insignificant," Javier repeated. "Tell that to the twenty-one people who died."

"There’s an email exchange between Hammond and Lawson. They discuss how to structure the trial protocols to minimize the appearance of adverse reactions."

“Yeah, I see it,” Javier said. And then he began to read aloud: "'We need to exclude participants with any history of asthma or respiratory issues. That should reduce the likelihood of severe reactions that could be attributed directly to Allergene.' Jesus. They were gaming the system before they even started."

"And here," Addison pointed, "Catherine Lawson suggests they classify any anaphylactic reactions as 'pre-existing conditions' unless definitively proven otherwise. She literally writes that the burden of proof should be on establishing causation, not on ensuring safety."

Javier straightened, running a hand through his hair. "This is corporate manslaughter. They knew the risks and decided twenty-four lives were an acceptable loss. And while I would never wish harm on anyone, it does sort of seem that Lawson sort of got what was coming to her."

Addison said nothing as a slight chill passed through her. "Let's look at the participant list."

She opened another file, this one containing detailed information on all three hundred and forty-two participants in the Allergene clinical trials. Names, ages, medical histories, dosing schedules, and outcomes were meticulously recorded—far more detailed than the sanitized version Helix had submitted to the FDA. It even had portions of the applications from some of the volunteers’ as well as bits of their medical histories.

"We need to cross-reference the deceased participants against next of kin," Addison said. "Someone related to one of those twenty-one people is very likely our killer. Especially if they have some other sort of connection to Helix."

"I'm on it." Javier minimized his email window and opened up the bureau database. He then brought both windows up, side by side. "Give me the first name."

Addison scrolled to the section labeled Adverse Outcomes - Category 5 (Fatal). "Martin Abernathy, fifty-seven. Died of respiratory failure fourteen days after his third dose."

Javier typed rapidly and had a result within twenty seconds. "Abernathy, Martin... wife, Linda, fifty-five. Son, David, thirty-two. Both living in Portland. No criminal records. No pharmaceutical background."

"Scratch them for now," Addison said. "Jennifer Cole, forty-three. Cause of death listed as 'acute anaphylactic response with unknown trigger.'"

More typing, another brief wait, and then Javier began to scroll a bit until he once again gave a concise report. "Cole, Jennifer... divorced, ex-husband in Florida. Parents both deceased. One sister, Caroline Westfield, an accountant in Tacoma."

They continued through the list methodically, Javier checking each name against the FBI database while Addison noted potential connections.

Maria Gutierrez, thirty-three. Died after her second dose. They tried to attribute it to shellfish consumption."

"Husband and two children in San Diego. Husband works construction. No scientific background in the family."

"Robert Fenton, sixty-two. Died during what was supposed to be routine colonoscopy, but the notes indicate his histamine levels were off the charts."

"Widower. Two adult children, both on the East Coast. Daughter's a teacher, son works in finance."

As they went through this process, Addison began to feel remorse for each and every one of them. And with each one they reported on, the angrier she became…more determined. And then, roughly twenty minutes after they’d started going through the names, there was a sudden shift.

"Thomas Dunn, twenty-eight,” Addison said. “Died of 'severe allergic reaction' despite no previous history of allergies.’ Autopsy inconclusive on a specific trigger."

Javier entered the name and paused, his expression shifting. "Hold on. Thomas Dunn, a Seattle native?”

Addison took a moment to check and nodded after a while. “Yeah, it says so right here.”

“Well, if it’s the deceased Thomas Dunn, twenty-eight, that I’m seeing right here, he has a sister, Olivia Dunn. She’s fifty-two and believe it or not, she’s a research assistant at Helix Pharmaceuticals. Has been for nearly twenty years from what I see here."

Addison sat up straighter. "She worked there during the Allergene trials?"

"According to her employment records, yes." Javier's fingers flew across the keyboard, digging up more digital dirt. "She's got a background in immunology. Bachelor's from UW, Master's from Stanford."

"She would understand how Allergene works with that background," Addison said, excitement building in her voice. "She would know how to modify it to create the two-part compound. The fact that she's working R&D for them also makes her a perfect match."

"And she'd have access to the lab facilities needed to do it," Javier added. “Helix lab facilities, at that.”

"Pull up the Helix website," Addison said. "If she still works there, they should have an employee page."

Javier ran a quick web search and brought it up. The Helix Pharmaceuticals website was sleek and modern, all clean lines and soothing colors designed to inspire trust in their products. He navigated to the "Our Team" section. Javier scrolled for only a moment before he stopped.

"I’ll be damned," Addison said as she looked at Olivia Dunn's profile.

The woman staring back from the professional headshot appeared to be around fifty, with graying brown hair cut in a practical bob and wire-rimmed glasses. Her smile was measured, professional—the kind practiced in front of a mirror before corporate photography sessions.

"Research and Development Department," Addison read. "Specializing in protein interaction and histamine response."

"Perfect skill set for our killer," Javier commented.

Addison stared at the image, a memory surfacing. "I've seen her before."

"Where?"

"In the conference room at Helix, after Catherine Lawson died." Addison closed her eyes, reconstructing the scene in her mind. "She was there, standing in the back. I remember thinking she looked more clinically curious than upset."

"She was watching her handiwork," Javier said grimly. “Of course, she would have been perfectly hidden in the chaos of the moment.”

"If this is her…if this is out killer…she's taking out her brother's murderers one by one," Addison said, the pieces falling into place. "Mitchell, who led the research. Lawson, who covered up the deaths. Weber approved the trials despite the red flags. Levinson, who wanted to revive the project."

"And Hammond, who gave the final approval and then buried the evidence…he’d be the clear next target. Maybe he would have already been a target if he hadn’t been in Olympia, cheating on his wife."

Addison shot to her feet. "Hammond is in the Helix building right now. You said so yourself, right?"

"Shit.” Javier was already reaching for his jacket. “You’re right.”

"I’ll let Loomis know,” she said, already scrolling to the number in her phone. “Can you make a call for backup? But tell them to stay outside until we give the word. If Dunn sees a swarm of agents or cops, she might panic and make a run for it.”

“That’s if Dunn is our killer,” Javier pointed out. “There’s no hard evidence.”

“I know. But this…it just…”

“I know,” he said. “It feels right.”

Addison nodded, studying Olivia Dunn's photo again before making her call to Loomis.

There was something in the woman's eyes that she hadn't noticed at first—a hardness behind the professional smile. The look of someone who had nothing left to lose.

It didn’t look like the face of a killer, though. But if Addison had learned anything during her time as an agent, it was that killers came in all shape and sizes. And the most dangerous ones were often those who seemed the least likely.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Olivia Dunn had long ago mastered the art of invisibility. As a research assistant at Helix Pharmaceuticals for nearly twenty years, she'd perfected the ability to blend into the clinical backdrop—just another lab coat in a building full of them. Just another name on a payroll of hundreds. Just another pair of hands running tests, recording data, following protocols.

Just another person, no one really saw.

Her office reflected this cultivated anonymity. Unlike the executive suites upstairs with their mahogany furniture and sweeping views of Seattle, Olivia's workspace was utilitarian and windowless. A standard-issue desk. Metal filing cabinets. Fluorescent lighting that cast everything in a harsh, unflattering glow.

The only personal touches were a framed photograph of her brother Thomas, taken before the trials, when his smile still reached his eyes, and a small potted cactus that required minimal care. Everything else was precisely arranged: pens aligned perfectly, papers stacked at right angles, computer screen wiped clean of fingerprints each evening.

Olivia straightened her wire-rimmed glasses and checked her watch. 12:37 PM. Hammond would be expecting his afternoon tea in exactly twenty-three minutes.

She caught her reflection in her computer screen. At fifty-two, her brown hair had surrendered to streaks of gray that she no longer bothered to color. What was the point? The gray suited her now, matched the colorless existence she'd inhabited since watching Thomas die. Her face had thinned over the years, cheekbones more prominent, skin a shade too pale from endless hours under laboratory lights. She wore minimal makeup and practical clothes—a navy sweater over a button-down shirt, dark slacks, sensible shoes. The uniform of someone who wished to be overlooked. But she'd played her part well, remaining behind enemy lines and being a good little soldier…and it had all led up to these past few days—and what she was about to carry out twenty-three minutes from now.

Olivia opened her desk drawer and removed a small vial filled with clear liquid. The second compound. The final piece of her meticulous plan.

She'd been preparing for this moment for three years. After Thomas died—after she'd watched him suffocate, his airways closing while doctors scrambled uselessly to save him-she could have quit Helix. Should have, perhaps. But rage had a clarity to it that grief lacked. Rage gave her purpose. And so she'd stayed, keeping her enemies close, learning everything she needed to know to make them pay.

"Breathe free, with Allergene."

Catherine Lawson's proposed marketing slogan echoed in her mind with bitter irony. She remembered the day the marketing executive had presented it in a gleaming conference room, her voice bright with enthusiasm as she spoke of targeting sufferers of chronic allergies. Of promising them a life without restrictions.

Thomas hadn't breathed free. He'd choked to death on the false promise of their miracle drug. Others had died, too. But Helix had moved the earth to cover it up.

Mitchell had personally assured her that Allergene was safe, had looked her in the eye, and sworn that the animal testing had shown only minor side effects. "This could change your brother's life," he'd said, his voice slick with conviction. "Imagine—no more emergency room visits. No more epinephrine injections. Just normal life."

Weber had signed off on the clinical trials despite red flags in the preliminary data, his signature a careless scrawl on documents he likely hadn't even read.

Meanwhile, Levinson had insisted Thomas continue the trial even after he'd reported the first symptoms. "Breakthrough medication often produces temporary side effects," he'd explained, his tone condescending. "The benefits far outweigh the risks."

And Hammond—Hammond had been the worst of them all. After Thomas died, after the initial twenty-one deaths had been documented, he'd personally ordered the number be reported as eleven. He'd directed the legal team to obscure the link between Allergene and the fatal reactions. And just before Mitchell's death, he'd greenlighted reviving the project under a new name. Allergene 2.0. Same poison, different packaging. She assumed the idiots would change the name before new trials came up.

The irony wasn't lost on Olivia that she'd used their own creation against them. She'd modified Allergene, transformed it into the perfect weapon. The compound that had killed her brother now delivered justice in her hands.

Scientific elegance, she thought. Poetic justice.

She carefully returned the vial to her drawer. The first part of the compound was already in Hammond's system, administered that morning when she'd handed him a pen to sign a routine departmental review. The specially treated pen had transferred the compound through his skin—absorbed quickly, undetectably. He hadn't even looked at the document, just scrawled his signature and handed the pen back, already turning to his next task.

Invisible, as always. They never saw her.

Now she needed to deliver the second part. In Hammond's case, she'd initially considered repeating Weber's method—applying the compound to his car door handle. But the Helix parking garage had security cameras at every turn. Too risky.

Another pen? She dismissed the idea almost immediately. Lightning wouldn't strike twice. Hammond might actually read the document this time, now that he was caught up on his backlog after his "meditation retreat." And delivery methods couldn't be random—they had to be perfect. Each death a signature, each method selected to fit the crime.

The answer was eerily simple, honestly. It had come to her with crystalline clarity. His afternoon tea. Every day at 1:00 PM precisely, Hammond's assistant, Angela, brought him Earl Grey with a splash of milk, no sugar. The routine was as predictable as the sunrise. It was such a well-known part of his schedule that those close to him often teased him in exaggerated British accents.

So now, all she needed to do was to somehow make it so that she was the one to deliver that tea. It would be easy enough, but she needed to be clever about it. It would be simple to intercept. A quick explanation about a research update right at one o'clock, and hey, by the way, since I'm already headed in there, do you want me to go ahead and deliver that tea, Angela?

Olivia closed her eyes, visualizing how it would play out. The knock on his door. The carefully neutral expression as she entered with the teacup and the completely asinine, useless document she would claim she needed his signature on. Like Levinson, he barely looked at half the papers that were shoved in his face day after day. He'd take the tea, maybe nod distractedly. She'd leave the document and exit quietly.

And within minutes, he'd begin to feel the effects. The tightening of his throat. The struggle for air. His body was betraying him just as Allergene had betrayed its test subjects.

Just as it had betrayed Thomas.

She opened her eyes and checked her watch again. 12:40 PM. Twenty minutes until teatime.

In her mind's eye, she could see Thomas in his hospital bed, gasping for air that wouldn't come, his eyes wide with panic as he clawed at his throat. She'd held his hand until the end, promising him she’d make it right even though he couldn't hear her by then.

She reviewed her mental checklist one final time. The compound was prepared. Her explanation for being in the executive wing was rehearsed. It wasn’t like she didn’t make a few trips up there every day. The document requiring Hammond's "urgent" signature was prepared—something plausible but not important enough to raise alarms if it never actually reached his desk afterward.

Everything was in place. After three years of planning, of waiting, of maintaining her cover while she perfected her weapon, justice was finally within reach.

She glanced one last time at Thomas's photograph. The Helix executives had stolen his future. Today, she would balance the scales.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Addison sat ramrod straight as Javier sped ahead, his knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. He had floored the accelerator, weaving their unmarked car through midday traffic. Addison had one hand braced against the dashboard, the other gripping the grab handle above the door.

"Slow down, Javi. We can't help anyone if we crash," she said, though her voice lacked conviction. She was sort of enjoying it. And she loved it when Javier got that really serious look on his face.

"I’ll slow down when we get closer." He swerved around a delivery truck, ignoring the blare of horns behind them. "Dunn's had all morning with Hammond. If she hasn't administered the second dose yet, she will soon."

The Helix Pharmaceuticals building loomed ahead, a gleaming monolith of glass and steel rising at a respectful height against the Seattle skyline. Unlike their previous visits, they weren't entering as investigators looking for information. They were racing to prevent a murder. And seeing that they now knew what Helix had been up to for the past three years, it was almost like scoping out at a villain’s lair.

Javier swung into the underground parking garage, tires squealing as he took the ramp too fast. He barely bothered to park properly, leaving the car askew across two spaces near the elevator. They both knew that backup was three minutes out…which was impressive, actually, but sounded like forever.

They burst through the parking level doors into a wide corridor that branched off toward a small alcove of sorts, as well as the building's main lobby—a vast, sterile space of white marble and brushed aluminum. Four security guards manned the entrance, standing behind a curved reception desk. One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a military haircut, stepped forward as Addison and Javier approached. The others behind him wore looks of worry and apprehension.

"FBI," Addison announced, holding up her badge. "We need immediate access to Richard Hammond's office."

The guard's expression didn't change. "I'm sorry, but I can't allow that."

It wasn’t at all what Addison had been expecting, and she went frigid for a moment, unsure how to respond.

"This is an emergency," Javier said, producing his own credentials. "Mr. Hammond's life could be in danger."

"We have explicit instructions regarding FBI personnel," the lead guard replied, his tone mechanical. "No access without a warrant. If you have a message to deliver, we will make sure it’s handled."

Addison felt cold fury rising in her chest. "This is about the warrant request, isn't it? Helix's legal team were so worried we were coming that they’re now denying us access to the building?"

The guard remained impassive. "I'm just following orders, ma'am."

"Listen to me," Addison leaned forward, dropping her voice. "There is a killer in this building right now. Richard Hammond is her next target. If you don't let us through, his death will be on your hands."

"I'm sorry, but without proper authorization—"

"Proper authorization?" Javier's voice rose suddenly. "A man is about to die!"

Addison glanced at her partner, recognizing the shift in his demeanor. It was very unlike him, almost as if he was playing a part. And after another second or two, Addison realized that was exactly what he was doing. His eyes flicked briefly to hers—a signal. They needed a distraction.

"This is bullshit!" Javier stepped closer to the guard, invading his personal space. "People are dying while you're hiding behind protocol!"

The guard straightened, his hand moving subtly toward the taser at his belt. "Sir, I need you to step back."

"Or what?" Javier shoved the guard, not hard enough to hurt him but enough to provoke a response. "What are you going to do? You’re going to taze an FBI agent? I’d think twice about that, buddy."

Buddy, Addison thought. Oh yeah…he’s acting.

The guard stumbled backward from the little shove, and immediately the other three security personnel moved in, their attention fixed on the escalating confrontation.

"Sir! Stand down or we will restrain you!"

"Try it!" Javier shouted, his face flushed with convincing rage.

As the security team converged on Javier, Addison made her move. She slipped around the desk, moving swiftly toward the inner doors in a blur of motion. She heard the commotion behind her—the scuffle of feet, raised voices, Javier's continued protests, and one of the guards calling at her to stop—but she didn't look back. Javier could handle himself, and he’d put his neck on the line so she could get this done.

She slammed through the glass doors and broke into a run. The reception area opened into a wide corridor lined with placards indicating different departments. She scanned them quickly: Research & Development, with an arrow pointing down. Human Resources, to the left. Executive Offices, with an arrow pointing toward the elevators.

Addison sprinted for the elevators, punching the call button repeatedly. The seconds stretched into eternity as she waited, acutely aware of each heartbeat, each wasted moment. When the doors finally opened, she rushed inside and jabbed the button for the top floor.

As the elevator began its ascent, she drew her weapon and checked it, more from habit than necessity. She doubted she'd need to fire it—Dunn didn't strike her as the type to engage in a shootout—but the weight of the gun was reassuring in her hand.

The elevator dinged as it passed each floor, counting upward with maddening slowness. 3... 4... 5...Christ, she really wished she’s just taken the stairs.

Addison took a deep breath, centering herself. When those doors opened, she needed to be ready.

The elevator chimed as it reached the 8th floor, and the doors slid open to reveal a hushed, carpeted hallway. Unlike the stark white of the lobby, the executive floor was decorated in muted blues and grays, with recessed lighting that cast a warm glow over tasteful abstract art. It was more like a lounge than an office building.

She stepped out, gun held low at her side, and glanced both ways. A sign on the wall directed her: HAMMOND – CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER, with an arrow pointing right.

Addison moved quickly but cautiously down the corridor. As she rounded a corner, she nearly collided with two men dressed in black attire—button-down tees and slacks.. Security, she guessed from their earpieces and stance.

"Ma'am, you need to—" one of them began, reaching for her arm.

Addison didn't let him finish. "FBI," she said, flashing her badge with her left hand while keeping her weapon visible. "I need to see Richard Hammond immediately."

"We have orders—"

"Your orders just changed." Addison tried to push past them, but the larger of the two men moved to block her, reaching for her weapon.

"I'll need you to surrender that firearm," the guard said. Addison knew he had no right to demand a federal agent’s gun, but they didn’t have time to get into the legal ins and outs.

Addison reacted instinctively. She twisted away from his grasp, using her momentum to shove him hard against the wall. The impact wasn't enough to disable him, but it bought her a precious second—enough time to spin toward the second guard, who was already reaching for something at his belt.

She saw the canister too late. Mace. The guard squeezed the trigger, sending a stream of caustic spray toward her face. Addison jerked her head aside, avoiding the direct hit, but the periphery of the cloud caught her. The effect was immediate and vicious. Even the edge of the spray felt like liquid fire against her skin. Her eyes burned, tears streaming involuntarily down her cheeks. The acrid chemical smell filled her nostrils, making her choke slightly.

Through watering eyes, she saw the first guard recovering, lunging toward her. Pure instinct took over. As he reached for her, Addison stepped into his movement rather than away from it. She grasped his extended arm, pivoted her hips, and used his own momentum to throw him over her hip.

The guard crashed to the floor with a solid thud, the impact driving the air from his lungs. She heard it come out in a nearly comical oof.

The second guard hesitated, his canister still raised. Addison didn't give him time to reconsider. She closed the distance between them in two swift strides, slapping the mace away with her left hand while simultaneously driving her right forearm into his sternum.

The guard staggered backward, his back hitting the wall. Addison pressed her advantage, pinning him there with her forearm across his chest. She then pulled him forward hard, sending him crashing directly into the other guard.

With her eyes still streaming and stinging, Addison sprinted ahead, fighting through the lingering effects of the mace. Her eyes still watered profusely, vision blurred by involuntary tears. Each breath felt like inhaling fire. But she kept moving. The corridor seemed to stretch endlessly before her, the double doors at the end receding like a mirage. Behind her, she could hear the guards radioing for backup, their voices fading as the distance between them increased.

Finally, she reached the doors. No time for subtlety. Addison burst through them into an expansive outer office, startling a young woman behind a desk—Hammond's secretary or assistant.

"FBI," Addison managed, voice raspy from the mace. "Richard Hammond. Now."

The woman's eyes widened in alarm. "OH, well I think he’s—"

Addison ignored her, already moving toward the inner office door. The assistant rose, as if to stop her, then thought better of it as she caught sight of Addison's determined expression and the gun still clutched in her hand. She doubted the reddening eyes were helping her to look any more civilized, either.

With one final surge of effort, Addison shoved open the inner door.

Richard Hammond's office was exactly what you'd expect from a pharmaceutical CEO—spacious and tastefully furnished, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a decent view of Seattle. Hammond himself sat behind a massive desk of polished walnut, a bone china cup raised halfway to his lips.

"Mr. Hammond, put that down!" Addison shouted, lunging forward.

Hammond froze, staring at her in shock. "What the hell—"

Addison closed the distance between them in three strides and knocked the teacup from his hands. It shattered against the hardwood floor, sending fragrant liquid splashing across the expensive carpet. She understood, as she did it, that it might have been a bit of an overreaction. But given that she was still struggling with the after-effects of the mace and that she'd just beaten two security guards, she wasn't exactly thinking rationally.

"FBI," she gasped, still fighting the effects of the mace. Her eyes burned with fresh tears, and each breath felt like swallowing broken glass. "Don't touch anything. Especially not that tea."

Hammond rose from his chair, his face flushing with anger. "How dare you burst into my office! My security team will—"

"Did you drink any of that?" Addison cut him off, gesturing to the spilled tea.

"What? No, I was just about to when you assaulted me." Hammond's indignation gave way to confusion. "What is this about?"

"Olivia Dunn," Addison said, watching his reaction carefully. "Did she bring you that tea?"

Hammond's brow furrowed. "Olivia? From R&D? Yes, she was just here a minute ago. Said my assistant…” He seemed to understand that something was off. “She usually doesn’t bring it to me, but…” He seemed to fight with himself, not sure whether to be pissed off or scared. “What the hell are you doing here anyway?”

"There’s a good chance your tea is poisoned," Addison confirmed, holstering her weapon now that the immediate threat had passed. "The same compound that killed Mitchell, Lawson, Weber, and Levinson.”

“And Dunn is behind it? That’s absurd.”

“Maybe. But all signs point to her. Speaking of…where the hell is she? Any idea?”

Hammond paled visibly. "I don't understand. Why would Olivia—"

"Her brother Thomas died during the Allergene trials," Addison explained, moving to the window to scan the street below. "The trials you falsified reports about, claiming eight deaths instead of twenty-one. She's been planning this for years."

"This is insane," Hammond whispered, sinking back into his chair. But it was clear the wind had been knocked out of him just by hearing someone speak Helix’s sins out loud. "Thomas Dunn... I don't even remember—"

"She remembers," Addison cut him off. "You said she was just here a minute ago? Which way did she go?"

"I... I don't know. Out through reception, I assume. She seemed perfectly normal." Hammond stared at the spilled tea, his hands trembling slightly. "My God... if you hadn't come in..."

Through reception, Addison thought. Shit, I must have just missed her.

"Stay here,” she said to Hammond. “Don't touch anything. Another agent might be up shortly to secure you."

Without waiting for his response, she headed for the door. Dunn had less than a two-minute head start. If they moved fast enough, they could still catch her before she disappeared.

As Addison rushed back into the corridor, the burning in her eyes began to subside, replaced by a single-minded focus. Olivia Dunn had spent three years planning her revenge against the people who killed her brother. She wouldn't give up easily. There was no way she—

She’d made it just two steps out of the office before something moved toward her quickly from the right. A person—a woman—coming at her fast, in a blur, and slammed into her. Addison fell to the ground, the wind knocked out of her and the world suddenly spinning.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

A sharp elbow dug into Addison’s stomach, driving the air from her lungs. She gasped soundlessly, her diaphragm spasming as she tried to breathe against the sudden pressure. Through watering eyes, she recognized Olivia Dunn's face hovering above her, contorted with desperation. She's seen the face on the company website, but in real life, there was a desperate urgency to her gaze that transformed her appearance entirely.

Dunn had been hiding—waiting for her opportunity to escape, Addison realized. She’d very likely seen Addison coming; she’d maybe even heard the commotion of Addison making her way through those poor security guards. If she had indeed delivered the ta, there was no way that more than twenty or thirty seconds had passed between her leaving the office and Addison arriving.

And Addison had walked right into the ambush.

For a moment, Addison and Dunn grappled awkwardly on the plush executive-floor carpet. Addison could tell right away that Dunn had no real strength, but she was still unable to draw in a proper breath, so it was more of a struggle than it should have been. Dunn fought for control, trying to pin Addison to the ground. Feeling the weakness in the woman, Addison actually allowed it to happen. By not fighting back, she was able to get her breath back. So she didn't put up a fight as Dunn scrambled to roll her onto her back.

Addison felt the pain in her stomach subside, her breath coming back easily and naturally. She felt a light scratch along the side of her face where Dunn had nicked her, but that was the only damage she'd taken during the entire encounter. With one deft motion, she twisted her hips, using Dunn's momentum against her. They were both rolled over, the movement taking Dunn by complete surprise.

When she realized she was fighting a losing battle, Dunn fought with surprising ferocity. Her nails raked across Addison's forearm as she tried to break free. But it was the frantic struggle of someone unaccustomed to physical combat—all emotion and no technique. Addison's lungs were back to working at their full capacity again, and the fight turned decidedly one-sided. She pinned Dunn's arms with practiced efficiency, immobilizing the smaller woman beneath her.

"It's over, Olivia," she managed between still-labored breaths. "Stop fighting now, and it might not be so bad for you."

For a second, Dunn went limp, and Addison began reaching for her handcuffs. That brief relaxation of vigilance was all Dunn needed. With a desperate heave, she twisted her body violently, slipping from Addison's grasp like an eel.

Before Addison could re-establish her hold, Dunn had scrambled to her feet and was lurching toward the hallway that led to the elevators.

In one fluid motion, Addison drew her weapon and aimed it at Dunn's back.

"Freeze!" The command echoed down the empty corridor. "Don't take another step!"

Dunn halted mid-stride, her shoulders rising and falling with rapid breaths. Slowly, she turned, her face a mask of anguish and defiance. When she saw the gun, a heavy understanding seemed to settle over her.

Addison kept her gun trained steady as she rose to her feet, then carefully maneuvered herself between Dunn and the hallway, blocking her escape route.

"Hands where I can see them," Addison instructed, her voice calm despite the lingering burn in her throat from the earlier mace encounter.

Dunn raised her hands, palms outward. A streak of mascara was trailing down one cheek from tears she hadn't bothered to wipe away. Addison didn’t think the woman was even aware that she had started crying.

"You don't understand," Dunn said, her voice barely above a whisper. And it was then, as her voice cracked and slightly failed, that Olivia Dunn seemed to realize that she was indeed crying. "None of you understands what they did."

"I understand more than you think," Addison replied, not lowering her weapon. "Thomas Dunn. Your brother. He died during the Allergene trials three years ago, right?"

Something flickered across Dunn's face—surprise, perhaps, that the FBI agent knew this detail. She looked almost relieved for a moment. Relieved that someone understood her pain and what she had been living with.

"He was twenty-eight," Addison continued. "Suffered from severe allergies his entire life. You joined Helix to help people like him, right?”

Dunn nodded slowly as her face began to crumple and shift. Addison thought she might be just a few breaths away from a total breakdown.

“But when Allergene came along," Addison said, “they promised a miracle cure…one that killed him instead."

"How do you—"

"We found the trial records, Olivia,” Addison said softly. “The complete, unredacted version, not the sanitized reports Helix submitted to the FDA. We know there were twenty-one deaths, not eight. We know Hammond and the others covered it up."

Dunn's hands trembled slightly. A crystal-like clarity suddenly came over her features as she continued to fight to keep control. "Then you know why they deserve to die."

"I know Helix betrayed your trust," Addison said. "They betrayed everyone's trust. Mitchell, Weber, Lawson, Levinson, and Hammond—they all played a part in hiding the truth about Allergene. But killing them won't bring Thomas back. And it’s actually just making things infinitely worse for you. Olivia…do you even know what you’ve done?”

"It was justice!" Dunn's voice broke. "They murdered my brother and walked away without consequences. They were going to revive the drug under a new name. More people would have died!"

"Tell me about Thomas," Addison said, her tone softening slightly, though her aim remained steady. It was a classic subversion tactic, one that emotional people almost always fell for. Using it sometimes made Addison feel guilty as hell, but it worked nearly every time. She was going to have to arrest this woman, and it was going to be so much easier for everyone involved if Dunn was able to exorcise the emotions that had been tearing away at her for the last three years.

Tears welled in Dunn's eyes. "He was brilliant. Funny. Despite everything he went through with his allergies, he never complained. He trusted me when I told him about the trial. I was the one who administered his doses." Her voice caught. "I killed him. I killed him…but it was because Helix was so sure that this drug…that it would be the thing to fix him…"

"No, Olivia. Helix killed him. The executives who pushed forward despite the warning signs—they're responsible."

"They told me it was safe," Dunn continued, as if she hadn't heard. "Mitchell looked me in the eye and swore the animal testing showed only minor side effects. Weber signed off on protocols he never even reviewed. Lawson..." Her face twisted with hatred. "'Breathe free, with Allergene.' That was her slogan. But Thomas couldn't breathe at all at the end."

"And you stayed at Helix afterward," Addison said. "Keeping your enemies close while you learned how to modify Allergene into a weapon."

Dunn's chin lifted slightly. "The drug itself was fatally flawed and Helix fucking knew it,” she hissed. “I…I found out later that the animal testing showed clear signs of heightened histamine responses, not suppression. But they buried the data because they'd already invested too much."

"So you decided to give them a taste of their own medicine," Addison said. "Literally."

"I was only getting revenge for my brother," Dunn insisted, her voice rising. "Doling out justice to men who would otherwise never see it. Those bastards would never see the inside of a courtroom. Hammond made sure of that. Twenty-four people died, and not one executive spent a single day behind bars."

Addison took a measured breath and slowly holstered her gun. "I know. And I'm sorry about what happened to Thomas. But this wasn't the way to honor him."

The sounds of approaching footsteps echoed from around the corner—security, finally aware of the situation. And having collected themselves from being bested by Addison. Dunn's head snapped toward the noise, panic flashing across her features.

"You don't understand…" she said again, more desperately now. "They'll bury this, too. They always do."

"Not this time," Addison promised. "We have the records. The truth is coming out, Olivia."

The footsteps grew louder. Dunn's eyes darted wildly between Addison and the adjacent hallway where the sounds were coming from. With a cry that was more anguish than rage, she suddenly charged at Addison, trying to tackle her out of the way.

Addison braced herself for the impact, hating the fact that she was going to have to once again get violent with this woman. She caught Dunn's rush, her training allowing her to expertly deflect the smaller woman's momentum, prepared to subdue her again.

But something unexpected happened. What began as a desperate assault suddenly collapsed. Dunn's aggression dissolving into racking sobs. Instead of trying to fight through Addison, she crumpled against her, fingers clutching at the agent's jacket. She would have fallen straight to the floor in a heap if Addison had not caught her.

"He was all I had left," Dunn wept, her body shaking with the force of her grief. "Our parents were gone. It was just us. He trusted me to protect him."

Addison stood frozen for a moment, unsure of what to do. Nothing like this had ever happened and she wasn’t sure if there was protocol for this kind of thing. She didn’t want to openly comfort a killer, but her heart was also breaking for the woman at the same time. Awkwardly, she brought her left arm up to give Dunn a hesitant half-embrace, understanding all too well the pain of losing a sibling.

"I know," she said softly. "I know."

Javier rounded the corner seconds later, his weapon drawn. He was flanked by two Helix security guards, one of whom looked very pissed off to see Addison again. Javier took in the scene with a quick glance—Addison standing with the killer in a very strange embrace and Dunn sobbing uncontrollably against her.

"We're clear," Addison said, meeting her partner's eyes over Dunn's head. "It's over."

Javier holstered his weapon and approached cautiously. "Olivia Dunn, you're under arrest for the murders of Samuel Mitchell, Catherine Lawson, Roland Weber, and Marcus Levinson, and the attempted murder of Richard Hammond." Even Javier spoke softly, as if he, too, understood the sadness of the situation.

Dunn didn't resist as Javier gently pulled her arms behind her back and secured them with handcuffs. Her sobs had quieted to silent tears, her eyes fixed on some distant point only she could see.

"You have the right to remain silent," Javier continued, reciting the Miranda warning as he guided Dunn away from Addison.

Addison watched as Dun lowered her head, finally able to get control of her sobs. Addison was suddenly aware of how drained she felt. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness. And, of course, it was never a good thing to find yourself sympathizing with a killer, no matter what the reason for their crimes might be.

"You okay?" Javier asked, pausing before they led Dunn away.

Addison nodded, though she wasn't entirely sure it was true. Physically, the two scratches Dunn had doled out stung and her throat was still slightly irritated from the mace. But internally, her heart felt far too heavy. This would be one of those cases, she knew, that would pop up again and again over time to remind her how some cases were never cut and dry.

 "Just another day at the office, right?" she said.

Javier's mouth quirked in a half-smile. "Sure. If you say so.”

"You know what I mean." Addison followed them down the hallway, where more security personnel had now arrived. "We got her. Case closed."

But even as she said it, Addison knew some cases were never truly closed, not in the ways that mattered. Olivia Dunn would go to prison for the rest of her life. Hammond and the other Helix executives would likely escape any real consequences for the deaths they had caused. In the end, the company would likely pay out millions of dollars to families and various regulatory bodies, but they’d probably go on working and, over time, manage to worm their way out from under the shadow of their sins.

And somewhere out there, Jane is still missing.

The thought came like a bullet right between the eyes, violent and unexpected. And she supposed it would remain there until she had some real answers about her sister’s disappearance. No matter what cases distracted her and came to the center of her life, there would always be Jane. Jane, reminding her that the biggest mystery—the one most important to her—might never be solved at all.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Hammond's office carried the lingering scent of spilled Earl Grey, staining the pristine carpet with a spreading dark patch. The CEO of Helix sat in his leather chair, his earlier anger having given away to a more calculable emotion: self-preservation. It had only been an hour since Addison had slapped the cup of tea out of his hand but it seemed like the man had moved on exceptionally well.

Currently, it was just the three of them in his office: Addison, Hammond, and Javier. There was a single security guard posted outside of the door, but the door was closed. Hammond was eyeing the agents as if still unsure if they were friend or foe.

"I won't be pressing charges against you or the FBI," Hammond said, straightening his tie as if reasserting control.

“Thanks,” Javier said, “but with all due respect, why the hell would you press charges? We told you…Olivia Dunn admitted on her way out of the building that she had indeed placed that second compound into your tea.”

Hammond thought about this for a moment and then only shook his head in a resigned sort of way. Addison assumed he was used to making veiled threats like this all of the time…a tactic that simply stopped working when you were no longer holding any of the cards.

Addison's eyes had started burning again and she was just about done with Hammond. She knew he understood the sort of trouble Helix was going to be in, even after the drama with Olivia Dunn, and, as such, he wasn't being much help. What she also knew was that getting the official warrant might be easier now that Dunn had been caught; she’d no doubt sing like a canary about those actual documents and reports during interrogation, forcing the courts to act much faster, despite Helix’s lawyers.

“Mr. Hammond, if you’re done not thanking me for saving your life, I need to excuse myself. The mace I took from one of your guards while I was on my way to save your life is stinging like a bastard."

Without waiting for his response, she stepped out into the hallway. There were now three guards outside of the door, not just the one. She barely even acknowledged them as she asked: “Where’s the nearest restroom?”

"Down the hall on the left," one of the guards said.

She headed that way and found that it was not just the restroom, but the executive restroom. It was as luxurious as one would expect for the top floor of a pharmaceutical empire—marble countertops, designer soap, and soft lighting that normally would have been flattering but now only amplified her discomfort. Addison leaned over the sink and spent several minutes flushing her eyes out with cool water, watching as her carefully applied mascara dissolved into dark rivulets down her cheeks. It made her hate Hammond even more and she just wanted to get the hell out of there. But Javier was still with Hammond; maybe he was having more luck getting the bastard to talk.

By the time she returned to Hammond's office, the CEO had composed himself fully, speaking with Javier about the formal statement he would need to provide.

"As I was saying to your partner," Hammond continued as Addison reentered, her eyes still red-rimmed but the burning somewhat diminished, "I believe this unfortunate situation can be resolved without further complications. Our legal team will cooperate fully with your investigation of Ms. Dunn."

"That's very accommodating," Javier said, his tone neutral.

"We do, however, have another matter to discuss," Addison added, her voice hardening. "It’s a big, fat elephant sitting not only in the room but squarely on your desk. We are going to continue pushing for that warrant to expose Helix's negligence in at least twenty-one deaths and your participation in falsifying data for the FDA."

Hammond's expression froze, the corporate mask slipping just enough to reveal the anger beneath. "I thought we had an understanding."

"No understanding," Addison replied. "Dunn committed murder, and she'll face justice for that. But Helix's actions led to twenty-one deaths during those trials, and the evidence suggests you deliberately covered it up."

"That's preposterous," Hammond said, though his voice lacked conviction. "Any issues with our reporting to regulatory agencies were clerical errors, not deliberate falsification."

"Clerical errors that just happened to reduce the reported death count by more than half?" Javier asked, eyebrows raised. "That's quite a coincidence. Anyway…I guess it will all be there in those documents when we get them. And then you can be proven right. Right?"

Hammond's jaw tightened. "I see how this is going to go. Very well. You can speak to my lawyers about it. I have nothing further to say on the matter without counsel present."

"That's your right," Addison acknowledged. "But just so we're clear—this isn't going away. People died because Helix put profits ahead of safety, and then you covered it up. That's not just unethical. It's criminal. And now you have a woman from the inside who is going to almost certainly spill so much more during interrogations."

"If you'll excuse me," Hammond said stiffly, "I need to contact our legal department. I assume you can find your own way out?"

“And I’ll do so gladly,” Addison said. “Thanks.”

They exited the office, feeling Hammond's intense glare behind them like a physical shove. Addison felt his gaze like daggers as she walked back through the door and again into the hall. As they left the executive suite, Javier gave Addison a sidelong glance. "That went about as well as expected."

"Better, actually," Addison replied. "I half-expected him to have us thrown out by security again."

"He's in damage control mode now." Javier pushed the elevator call button. "Trying to figure out how to distance himself from all this. He knows we have the records Wexler sent us."

The elevator arrived with a soft chime, empty except for a lone maintenance worker who exited on their floor. Everyone they passed seemed to be on edge, still reeling from the encounter in the executive suite. Apparently, word had already gotten around. And Lord only knew how many people had seen Olivia Dunn escorted out in handcuffs.

"How bad are your eyes?" Javier asked once they were alone in the elevator.

"They'll be fine," Addison said, though she couldn't stop herself from blinking rapidly against the persistent irritation. "What did Seattle PD say about Dunn?"

"They've transported her to our field office for processing. Loomis wants us to handle the interrogation."

Addison nodded. "Good. I want to hear exactly how she pulled this off. The two-part compound, the delivery methods—all of it." She shook her head and then admitted: “And besides that…I feel terrible for her. I obviously don’t condone murder, but…”

“But hers is easy to understand.”

“Yeah.”

The elevator reached the lobby, and they stepped out into the controlled chaos of the crime scene. FBI agents and local police had cordoned off sections of the reception area, and a swarm of confused and concerned Helix employees watched from behind temporary barriers.

Outside, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the plaza in front of the Helix building. Addison squinted against the light, her irritated eyes even more sensitive than usual.

"You should get those eyes checked out," Javier said as they reached their car.

"Later," Addison said, sliding into the passenger seat. "Right now, I want to get back to the field office and talk to Dunn. Besides, I didn’t get the full blast. It’s just irritating. And it stings. But I’ll be fine."

Addison leaned her head back against the headrest, suddenly aware of the exhaustion seeping into her bones. "You know…I’ll admit it: after seeing those trial records, it's hard to feel too broken up about what almost happened to Hammond."

"I get that,” Javier said with a chuckle as he started the car. “But our job isn't to decide who deserves what. It's to uphold the law."

"Sometimes I wonder if that's enough," Addison said quietly. “And if, sometimes, the law might need to be shaken up a bit.”

Javier had no answer for that. He pulled the car into traffic, and they drove in silence back to the field office.

***

Back at the office, Addison made her way to her desk, nodding to colleagues who offered congratulations on catching Dunn. Word had spread that Dunn was waiting for her and Javier for questioning and there was a steady little thrum of excitement in the halls over the arrest. She took a moment to quickly change into another shirt—just a standard button-down white long-sleeve- and grabbed a protein bar from her desk drawer.

She was about to leave the office, grab a coffee, and meet Javier to head down and speak with Dunn. But before she left, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She took it out and saw that she’d received a missed call an hour and a half ago—right around the time she’d been in the scuffle with Dunn. Whoever had called had left a voice message and she’s somehow missed the notice until now.

The call had come from a local number and though it was one she recognized, it was apparently not one she used enough to have saved to her phone. She compared it to her outgoing calls over the past day or so and realized who it was: Agent Hannah Grant from the Missing Persons division. The FBI agent she'd asked to look into Leslie Boyer, the mysterious friend mentioned in Jane's diary. Addison had nearly forgotten she’d even placed the call.

Addison's heart quickened as she opened up the voicemail and pressed the phone to her ear.

"Addison, it's Hannah Grant. I looked into Leslie Boyer like you asked. I was able to dig up a bit, but it's... It's not pretty." There was a pause, and Addison could hear papers shuffling in the background. "Boyer came from a very religious family that moved around a lot. Homeschooled, no digital footprint until age twenty-two—the same year she killed herself."

Addison's grip tightened on the phone.

"I tracked the family's movements as best I could," Grant continued. "It wasn't easy—they operated off the grid in a lot of ways. But here's where it gets disturbing. I found several unsolved disappearances of young girls in locations where the Boyer family lived, spanning several years before Leslie's suicide. The cases weren't connected at the time because the family moved so frequently, crossing state lines."

Addison felt the blood drain from her face. Her office suddenly went cold.

"If what I'm seeing is real—and I want to emphasize this is preliminary—then Jane might have been just one victim of many. This family might have been abducting young women and... keeping them, for years. The timeline fits with your sister's disappearance. I need to do more digging, but I wanted to give you a heads-up. Call me when you can."

The voicemail ended, and Addison found herself staring at her phone, unable to move. The implications were too enormous, too horrific to process all at once. Jane, taken by a family that had abducted other girls. Kept for years. The religious overtones, the isolation, the constant moving to avoid detection.

Her sister might have been alive for years after her disappearance, trapped in some unimaginable hell.

"Addison?" Javier's voice broke through her thoughts. He was standing just a few feet away; he’d come down the hall and she’d not even noticed him. "Dunn's ready for interrogation whenever you are."

She looked up at him, but couldn't form words. The room seemed to tilt slightly, the fluorescent lights suddenly too bright, too harsh.

"You okay?" Javier asked, concern creeping into his voice. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I can't," she managed finally. "Not now. I—I have to go."

"What? We have Dunn waiting in interrogation. Loomis wants us to—"

"You handle it…please," Addison said, already gathering her things. "I'm sorry. I—there's something I need to check on. It's important."

He eyed her skeptically and lowered his voice. “Fearmonger?”

Addison shook her head and found it far too hard to give him a one-word correction. “Jane.”

Understanding dawned in Javier's eyes and she could see him hurting for her. Ever since she’d decided to share every detail of her sister's disappearance with him, he’d been supportive and caring; he knew exactly what this meant to her.

"Go," he said simply. "Do whatever you need. I'll cover with Loomis. Maybe it turns out that mace got your eyes more than you let on."

“Thank you,” she whispered, grabbing his hand and giving it a squeeze.

She walked by him and then down the hall, headed for the exit. Her mind was racing faster than her feet could carry her. She knew it was irresponsible to leave now, in the middle of wrapping up a major case…especially when it seemed she and Dunn had made something of an odd connection. But the weight of Grant's information pressed down on her, crushing rational thought beneath the terrible possibility that Jane had suffered far worse than she'd ever imagined.

This was an answer she’d been looking for…and it was darker and more dreadful than she’d ever dared to imagine.

The drive to her apartment passed in a blur. Traffic lights, pedestrians, other vehicles—all seemed distant and unreal compared to the horror unfolding in her mind. She wept at some point and it actually served to help her eyes feel a bit better. The dark irony of how tears for her sister didn’t help to make her feel better wasn’t lost on her.

By the time she reached her door, her hands were shaking so badly she could barely get the key in the lock. Once inside, she went straight to her bedroom, to the nightstand where Jane's diary lay, still only partially read.

The diary that might contain clues she'd missed. References to the Boyer family. Signs of what was to come.

Addison sat on the edge of her bed and opened the diary, flipping through pages she'd already read, searching for any mention of Leslie, any hint about the family that might have taken her sister. But the words swam before her eyes, refusing to make sense.

The first sob caught her by surprise, rising from some deep, primal place she usually kept carefully contained. Then another, and another, until she was crying in great, heaving gasps that bent her double over the diary in her hands. The words became a blur and before long, she was cradling the diary like a child might hold their favorite stuffed animal on a dark and stormy night.

She cried for Jane, for the sister who had vanished while under her care. For the years she might have suffered, held captive by people who had done this before, who knew how to hide their crimes. She cried for her own failure to find her, to save her, to even understand until now what might have happened.

"I'm sorry," she whispered between sobs, clutching the diary to her chest. "I'm so sorry, Jane."

The crying lasted until her body simply had no more tears to give. She sat in the growing darkness of her bedroom, emotionally drained but with a new clarity emerging from the devastation.

If Grant was right—if Jane had been taken by the Boyer family—then this was more than a cold case. If it turned out to be true, this was new evidence, a new break. And that meant Jane’s case could officially be re-opened. There might be other victims, other families waiting for answers.

And if the Boyers were still out there...

Addison wiped her face and took a deep, shuddering breath. She wouldn't let this destroy her. She would use it, channel it into action.

She picked up her phone and began making a list. She needed to call Grant back. She needed to dig deeper into the Boyer family history, track their movements more precisely. She needed to cross-reference their locations with unsolved disappearances nationwide. She needed to find out what happened to the rest of the family after Leslie's suicide.

She felt the need to keep crying coming from some broken place inside of her, but she could do that later. Right now, she had to dig deep while the fire for Jane was burning hotter and brighter than anything else in her life, even interrogating Olivia Dunn.

Addison set the diary back on her nightstand and stood, her decision made. The Allergene case was over. Dunn was in custody. Hammond would face consequences, one way or another.

But this new lead in Jane’s case was new; it was just beginning.

For the first time in years, Addison felt something she'd almost forgotten: hope, terrible and fragile, that Jane's story might not have ended on that Christmas shopping trip so long ago.

And with that hope came a renewed determination that would not be denied. But while she knew the case might now have the chance to be re-opened and become official, Addison wasn’t sure she wanted that. For so long, this had been her secret case, her secret obsession. And if she ever found the people responsible…well, she may find herself relating to someone like Olivia Dunn more than she had thought.

If she ever found the people responsible, she might very well kill them.

So for now…she thought this might just be her secret to keep.

NOW AVAILABLE!

FIND TRUTH

(An Addison Shine FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 11)

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As an unseasonable cold clutches the bodies of seemingly random victims, FBI Agent Addison Shine delves into a frozen tangle of clues to uncover a killer's disturbing method of preservation. In this riveting tale of ice-bound mystery, Addison’s medical savvy is put to the ultimate test against an icy-hearted foe.

FIND TRUTH (An Addison Shine FBI Suspense Thriller–Book #11) is the eleventh 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).

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Future books in the series will soon be available!

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FIND TRUTH

(An Addison Shine FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 11)

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