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“I want Sheriff Hagen and Agent Esmer to hear the details of the new murder with me, sir,” Riley told Meredith. “We’ve been working together on this.” Looking around, she saw that no one else was in sight on the quiet suburban street. “Let me put my phone on speaker.”

Sheriff Hagen and Ann Marie huddled closer, forming a makeshift triangle on the sidewalk. Hagen’s steady gaze and Ann Marie’s earnest blue eyes both reflected a hunger for information.

“Everyone’s listening, Meredith,” Riley announced.

“Last night in Basingstoke,” Meredith began, “Robert Nash, a retired professor from Boutell College, was found murdered, strangled. Apparently, he was on his way to visit a neighbor.”

“A math professor again?” Riley asked.

“Yes, and other details are the same, too. An algebra quiz sheet was pinned to his back.”

“And the neighbor?” Ann Marie asked.

“There are still a lot of uncertainties. But he’s a math teacher in a local high school.”

Riley’s mind churned, the new murder slotting into her mental images.

She could feel the pull of the hunt, the need to understand this predator who moved from place to place unpredictably.

All of the victims were in professions related to math, and all so far had been here in Virginia.

But anything else that might connect them remained a mystery.

“Has anybody solved the algebra problems?” she asked.

“Locals are working on them,” Meredith replied. “They’re looking for answers that are decimals, not whole numbers. Or anything else that stands out.” Then he asked, “How’s the investigation going in Glencoe?”

“There was a body buried at the coordinates found on the quiz sheets,” Riley said. “It was a woman who was buried 20 years ago—Patricia Warren was her name. Her husband is on our suspect list, but we’re far from sure that he killed her, and I doubt that he committed the recent murders.”

Hagen leaned forward, his voice a rumble of assurance. “I’ll give you a fuller report on the twenty-year-old case later on, Agent Meredith.”

“Okay, keep me updated, Hagen,” Meredith instructed. “But I’m going to need Paige and Esmer at the new crime scene.”

Hagen glanced at Riley and Ann Marie. Although he looked worried, he assured Meredith, “My team can handle things here in Glencoe for now.”

“Good,” Meredith’s voice was clipped with urgency. “Agents Paige and Esmer, head to 1432 Elm Street in Basingstoke. And hurry,”

“Got it,” Riley replied, her mind already racing ahead to the scene that awaited them. Then Meredith added, “You’ll meet Agent Putnam there. I want both of you on this.”

Riley was glad he couldn’t see the frown that crossed her face at the mention of Putnam.

Squaring her shoulders, she accepted the necessity of collaboration, despite her reservations.

There was an active killer, and personal conflicts had to take a backseat.

Professionalism was essential at a time like this.

“Understood,” she told Meredith.

“Good luck,” he said, the line going silent as the call ended.

“Let’s move,” Riley said to Ann Marie, pocketing her phone. “We need to get back to our car.”

The trio hurried to Hagen’s cruiser. After the sheriff pulled his vehicle away from the curb, he glanced over at Riley. “Your impressions of Levon Warren?” he asked. “Do you think that Levon killed his wife?”

Riley turned her head slightly, considering the layers beneath the surface of his inquiry.

In her mind’s eye, she revisited the burial site, the subtly marked grave.

While there, she had visualized two people carrying the body, and she doubted whether a solitary figure actually could have managed it alone.

“I don’t think that Patricia Warren’s burial was likely to be the work of a lone individual,” she told him. “It needed coordination, cooperation. And let’s just say I’m having trouble picturing Levon Warren as part of a team—any team.”

It wasn’t just about physical ability; it was about temperament, a willingness to share a load, both literal and figurative.

“Unless he was working with his crazy conspiracy group,” Ann Marie muttered.

But Riley still doubted it, her mind replaying the conversation with Levon.

It was true that a name like “Cipher Society” conjured images of shady figures hunched over cryptic puzzles.

But could a man who clung to his solitude in an imagined reality be part of something as insidious as murder?

Of course, it was possible. But in spite of his angry outbursts, the old mathematician didn’t quite fit the profile that was building like a puzzle in her head.

“Then you don’t think he was involved in the recent murders either? “Hagen probed.

“Too soon to tell,” she finally responded. “So far, I doubt it. But we can’t write him off. Not yet.”

Hagen nodded, accepting her cautionary advice as they continued their drive in contemplative silence.

The streets of Glencoe seemed to Riley to be passing by like frames in a slow-motion film.

By the time they reached the Sheriff’s headquarters, Riley was feeling the familiar surge of adrenaline that came with the prospect of diving into a new crime scene.

“Keep an eye on Warren,” she instructed Hagen tersely. “He might not be our man, but he could still tell us something valuable.”

“I’ll do that,” Hagen agreed. “You don’t think he’ll run?”

Riley shook her head. “He’s too enigmatic, too confident in his own eccentricities. Flight doesn’t fit his profile.” Then she added, “He may not run, but people like Warren often hide things in plain sight.”

“Alright,” Hagen acquiesced. “I’ll have my men discreetly monitor his movements.”

Riley unlocked the BAU sedan and slid behind the wheel, and Ann Marie took the passenger seat again.

She keyed the ignition, and the engine purred to life, a promise of momentum against the stagnation of unsolved cases.

As the vehicle rolled out of the parking lot, the reality of their mission settled over them.

“Should be a two-hour drive,” Riley said, glancing at Ann Marie. “Let’s use the time wisely.”

“Of course, Riley,” Ann Marie responded, already reaching for her computer tablet.

"You’re right to be suspicious of the Cipher Society,” Riley said. “Go ahead and access the FBI records for any intel. We need to know if they have a history that could connect them to these murders.”

“Right away,” Ann Marie responded. She fell silent as she navigated through the secure FBI database, her blue eyes scanning the screen intently.

As the road unfurled before them, and Riley felt the familiar pull between the cold professionalism required of her job and the fascination that field cases stirred in her.

Her hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, each mile bringing them closer to Basingstoke and another scene that required her mind, her eyes, every bit of her ordinary and extraordinary abilities.

She could feel an internal shift, the transition from one role to another, from teacher to hunter.

“Got some info,” Ann Marie announced, pulling Riley back from her thoughts.

“Looks like the Cipher Society has been on the radar for minor computer crimes, and some of its members have gotten busted. Mostly for pranks—digital graffiti, hacking billboards. They seem more interested in thumbing their noses at authority than causing real harm.”

“Pranks can escalate,” Riley mused, her voice low. “Keep digging. There might be a pattern we’re not seeing.” She knew all too well how the seeds of violence could sprout from seemingly innocuous soil.

As she drove, she considered the Cipher Society’s antics as Ann Marie reported them to her.

“One time they hacked into the city’s traffic control system in Richmond,” Ann Marie said, scrolling through a list of offenses. “They turned all the traffic lights green at once. Caused quite a chaos, but no one was seriously injured.”

“Anything else?”

“There was another incident at Hanover University,” she added after a moment. “They replaced all the digital class schedules with cryptic mathematical formulas. It took days for the IT department to correct everything.”

Riley frowned, her mind working over these seemingly juvenile acts. They were disruptive, yes, but there was an undercurrent of intelligence and calculation to them as well. Not unlike a series of murders marked by algebra quizzes.

As they neared Basingstoke, Riley felt a familiar knot forming in her stomach—the anticipation and dread that always accompanied her arrival at a crime scene.

She glanced over at Ann Marie, who was now reading aloud from an article about Cipher Society’s most notorious hack—a breach of the Virginia Educators for Excellence in Mathematics website where they’d posted their manifesto decrying mainstream education.

As the road unfurled before them, Ann Marie’s voice again broke the rhythm of the tires against the asphalt. “Do you think the Cipher Society could be... evolving? Like, maybe they’ve moved on from pranks to something more sinister?”

The idea wasn’t implausible. People changed, and so did their motives.

What started as a game could turn deadly with the right—or wrong—push.

Riley knew this from experience, had seen innocence twist into malice under life’s relentless pressure.

But was the Cipher Society capable of such a transformation?

Had their disdain for societal norms ever curdled into a murderous rage?

“Keep an eye out for any behavioral shifts in their past activities,” Riley instructed. She needed facts, patterns to piece together, not just hunches. A killer’s mind was like a dark room, and she was feeling along the walls for a switch.

When signs welcoming them to Basingstoke loomed ahead, Riley felt her focus shifting in anticipation of the new scene. The college town was stirring to life, students and faculty alike moving through the streets, cheerfully and with purpose.

Riley navigated the vehicle through the heart of the town, noting the quaint charm of the main street. It was almost too picturesque, a veneer of normalcy that she knew was hiding at least one horror lurking behind one of these doors.

“Turn here,” Ann Marie said, breaking Riley’s reverie. She pointed to a leafy side street that led away from the bustle of the town center.

Following her directions, Riley turned the car onto the quieter residential street. The houses here were well-kept, gardens manicured with care—the type of community that would be untouched by suspicion until now. Riley almost pulled over when she saw a house marked off with police tape.

“That’s not it yet,” Ann Marie said. “It’s a little farther on.”

Riley then remembered Meredith telling them that the victim had been walking toward his neighbor’s house when he disappeared.

The house they had just reached must be where he’d lived.

They continued past a row of trees to the address they were actually looking for, the neat numbers affixed to the mailbox outside.

A police car was parked on the street, but Riley didn’t see any of the investigators right away. Yellow crime scene tape fluttered across this front yard just like the one they had just passed.

“Here we are,” she murmured, killing the engine. Her hands rested momentarily on the wheel, steeling herself. She glanced at Ann Marie, who was already gathering her gear, her youthful face set with determination. Together, they stepped out of the car.

“Agent Paige,” came a voice, clipped and precise, pulling her gaze toward the source.

Riley turned to see Agent Putnam standing framed by an open doorway at the front of a garage. His suit, as always, appeared immaculate, the lines sharp enough to cut through the day’s tension.

“The crime scene is in there,” he announced, motioning to the interior with a jerk of his thumb. Indeed, the sliding door of the garage remained closed, while the side entrance hung open, an unspoken invitation to the new arrivals.

Riley’s eyes briefly met Ann Marie’s, conveying both anticipation and trepidation.

Riley and her partner walked past him toward the open door of the garage.

She had not been present at the previous two murder scenes of this case, and each detail recounted to her had been like assembling a puzzle in the dark.

But she was here, now, and maybe—just maybe—the pieces could reveal themselves under her own scrutiny.

The slight scent of oil from the garage mingled with the fragrance of freshly mown grass from the neighboring yards. It was in this kind of contrast that reality set in; behind the everyday suburban facade, violence had intruded.

As Ann Marie followed Putnam’s lead inside, Riley lingered a moment longer, allowing herself to absorb the atmosphere. Here was an opportunity, a chance to tap into that uncanny ability she possessed – to try and feel what the perpetrator might have felt, to think as they had thought.

She knew better than to expect clarity or revelation on command; her ‘gift’ did not operate like the flick of a switch.

And this crime scene was sure to be claustrophobic and full of distractions.

Yet, each detail, each visualization combined with ordinary sensory input, was a potential key to unlocking the psyche of a killer.

As she followed Ann Marie’s steps toward the darkness of the garage, Riley cleared her mind—hoping for, bracing for, the rush of intuition, the sense of connection with a killer’s mind that had made her such a formidable BAU agent.