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When Riley walked into the dimly lit garage, she was aware that Putnam was watching her closely. She joined Ann Marie, who stood appraising the crime scene.

A car sat in one bay, innocuous and dusty, as if it had been forgotten there. But it was the adjacent space that drew Riley’s focus—the meticulously cordoned-off area where a folding chair stood draped with crime scene tape that fluttered slightly in the breeze from outside.

“Careful where you step,” Putnam cautioned, his voice flat and practical as always.

Riley nodded, her gaze fixed on the chair.

It was an ordinary piece of furniture, but its presence here indicated anything but.

She could almost feel the echo of violence in this place, even though she was sure the murder must have been carried out quietly, since it had attracted no immediate attention.

She wanted to understand, to slip inside the mind that made such displays of his victims. But the scene was cluttered with the evidence of police work—markers, tags, and the latent energy of the officers who had scoured the space for answers.

And besides, with Agent Putnam following her every move, Riley didn’t feel any insights nudging at her mind.

As much as she wanted to forge a connection, to leap into contact with the murderer’s psyche, that wasn’t going to happen right now.

“This was the scene found by the local police,” Putnam said as he opened a file folder and handed over a set of glossy photographs.

In each image, the central figure—the victim—was seated unnervingly upright in the chair, head lolled to one side.

The pose was identical to the two previous victims—and like the others, a sheet of paper was pinned to his back.

“The man who lives here found Nash just like this,” Putnam told her.

Although the victim’s pose was simple, Riley found the images disturbing. There was something ritualistic in the consistent arrangement. She traced a finger over the sheet of paper pinned to the man’s back in the photograph, a message, but also a signature left by the killer.

“What was the cause of death?” Ann Marie asked.

“Strangulation, just like the others,” Putnam said.

“Margaret Whitfield... Garrett Fenn...” she murmured, half to herself. “And now this one.”

“Exactly,” Putnam confirmed, watching her closely. “It’s definitely a pattern. And it implies more to come.”

Riley’s pulse quickened at the thought, her skin prickling with apprehension.

This was a puzzle, a challenge laid out by someone who craved recognition, who wanted their macabre intellect acknowledged.

She had to decipher it before another life was reduced to a mere prop in this sinister performance.

“I’d like to keep this set of photos,” she told Putnam. Although he seemed to hesitate briefly, he didn’t argue. Riley handed the file to Ann Marie and then walked gingerly around the perimeter of the space.

“Robert Nash,” Putnam began in a businesslike tone, “was a respected math professor at Hindemith College. Retired. I’m told he wasn’t just an academic, but someone who really enjoyed the pursuit of knowledge.” His eyes flicked to the empty chair. “He lived in the house next door.”

Riley glanced out of the garage toward the home just visible through the line of tall oaks.

Of course, she understood, that’s why that house was taped off too.

She wondered how the residents of other handsome houses on this street were taking the activity and the news today. It was a quiet neighborhood, one that projected comfort and routine, not the cloak-and-dagger drama of murder.

“The garage belongs to Cliff Baird,” Putnam continued, and Riley turned back to listen to him. “He and his wife live at this address. Baird is a local high school math teacher. A former student of Nash’s.”

“Student and mentor,” Riley mused aloud, piecing together the human connections behind the stark facts.

“Last night,” Putnam continued, “Nash was grading papers for Baird. He left his home to deliver them, and... well, he never made it. Louella, his wife, assumed the two friends had gotten caught up in a long conversation, but late in the night she got worried and called Baird. He told her Nash never arrived with the papers.”

“Which means Nash was intercepted between there and here,” Riley observed, her voice low. There was something profoundly unsettling about the simplicity of the report—a neighborly favor turning into horror.

She thought of Louella Nash, waiting for her husband to return, the slow creep of dread as the clock ticked on without him. The suburban neighborhood suddenly seemed more sinister, with a threat like that lurking behind neat hedges and closed doors.

“From his home to here... it’s a short walk,” Riley muttered, her eyes tracing the likely path Nash would have taken.

She visualized the professor stepping through the night, papers in hand, unsuspecting.

“He probably would have cut across the lawns, not easily seen from anywhere else. He was vulnerable. Easy prey for someone lying in wait.”

Putnam nodded, his face an unreadable mask. “The wife and Baird ran around looking for him. Baird found him just sitting there... like he was taking a breather.”

“Except he wasn’t breathing at all,” Riley said, her words clipped. The killer had not only slain Nash but staged him, an eerie echo of previous victims. Riley could almost feel the killer’s satisfaction, the twisted sense of accomplishment.

“Exactly,” Putnam’s agreement was cold comfort to Riley. “The killer wanted him to be found like this. Wanted us to see the consistency.”

Ann Marie, her youthful face grave, asked to see the quiz sheet from the crime scene photos. Putnam pulled out his phone, swiped, and handed it to her. Riley leaned over Ann Marie’s shoulder as they scrutinized the image— neat figures of mathematical problems.

“Has anyone worked these out these problems?” Riley asked.

“One of the local cops,” Putnam replied, tapping on his phone. “Came up with a decimal number for just one of the answers: 37.12.”

“Latitude,” Ann Marie murmured, her eyes widening. “It has to be.”

Riley felt a surge of adrenaline. A geographic coordinate was a clue, but it was only half of the puzzle. Without the longitude, they didn’t have enough to go on.

“Only one half of a location,” she said, voice low.

“We need more, or...” She trailed off, meeting Ann Marie’s wide eyes.

They both realized that that they would only get another number—the one for the longitude—if they failed to stop the killer from murdering again.

In his twisted system, the quiz revealing that number would be found pinned to yet another victim.

Riley turned to Putnam and realized that he must have already figured that out. She met his gaze directly and asked, “Have you found out anything useful from your interviews?”

“Not yet,” he replied, then added a bit proudly. “But my team dug up something you need to know.”

“What is it?”

“Seems our victims weren’t chosen at random,” Putnam continued, scrolling through his phone with efficiency. “At least two of them did have a connection.”

He held up his phone, the screen lit up with blog posts, emails exchanged, a digital trail winding back through the lives of Margaret Whitfield and Garrett Fenn.

Putnam handed the phone to Riley, who skimmed the contents.

Garrett Fenn, a man whose passion for mathematics echoed in his writings, had once shone a spotlight on Margaret Whitfield’s methods.

“An interview,” Riley muttered, absorbing the words that leaped out at her. “He said how much he admired her.”

“Exactly,” Putnam replied. “They shared more than just a profession—they had a mutual respect, a kinship in their field.”

Riley exhaled slowly, the pieces slotting together in her mind with a clarity that was as sharp as it was unwelcome. Two educators linked by their love of teaching, now bound together by the circumstances of their deaths.

“Good work, Putnam,” she said, handing back the phone. Her respect for the agent’s diligence did not extend to liking him, but she couldn’t deny his effectiveness.

Her gaze met Ann Marie’s, a silent exchange passing between them. Both women were puzzled by the ruthless murders of quiet scholars who did no one any harm. Now it seemed that the very admiration that linked Margaret Whitfield to Garrett Fenn might have also connected their fates.

In addition to that, Riley still felt the sting of personal loss.

Margaret Whitfield had been more than just a name in a case file to her.

She was grateful that Ann Marie made no mention of Riley’s private history with Mrs. Whitfield.

She didn’t need Putnam prying into her motivations or questioning her objectivity.

Their partnership was frayed around the edges as it was; no sense in unraveling it further with personal disclosures.

“Another brilliant mind snuffed out,” Riley muttered under her breath—a lament for those lost and a vow to see justice done.

“Can we speak to Professor Nash’s wife?” Riley asked, breaking the hush that had settled over the group. She needed to hear from someone who knew Robert Nash intimately—perhaps there lay a clue yet uncovered.

“Mrs. Nash is currently hospitalized,” Putnam informed them, his voice devoid of warmth. “She suffered a severe shock upon learning what happened to her husband.”

Riley’s heart clenched at the thought. She could imagine all too well the trauma Louella Nash must be enduring after discovering a loved one’s lifeless body.

“However,” Putnam continued, redirecting their attention, “Cliff Baird, the friend who lives here, is available. He’s inside being interviewed by one of the local detectives.”

“Let’s not waste any time then,” Riley said, setting aside her thoughts on Louella Nash.

As they left the garage, her gaze lingered on the empty space where Robert Nash’s life had been brutally cut short.

In that brief moment, a shiver coursed through her body.

She could almost sense the killer’s presence—vengeful yet reverent—as if he were meting out his own twisted form of justice.

Reverence, she thought.

Although a sense of the killer’s presence had mostly evaded her on this occasion, that feeling rang clear in her mind. The killer was committing these acts as a homage of sorts—perhaps as retribution for a perceived wrong to someone he deeply respected.

“Riley?” Ann Marie’s voice pulled her back from her thoughts.

“Right behind you,” she replied, following Putnam toward the front of Cliff Baird’s house. But she kept the eerie sensation close; it held a clue about the killer’s motivation, an insight into a mind that saw murder as a means to set things right.

The suburban home, with its neatly trimmed hedges and welcoming front porch, seemed incongruous with the horror that had unfolded just outside last night.

As they approached, Riley steadied herself, preparing to delve for answers that might be tucked away in the memories of those who knew Nash best.

Inside, the living room was steeped in a somber atmosphere, the air thick with unspoken grief. Putnam introduced them to Basingstoke Police Detective Archie Prendergast, a man whose stern expression softened upon seeing Riley and Ann Marie.

“Detective Paige, Agent Esmer,” Prendergast greeted them. He gestured toward a man seated on the couch, his hands wrung tight, his eyes red-rimmed with distress. “This is Cliff Baird.”

“Mr. Baird,” Riley began, her voice gentle but firm, “we understand this has been a traumatic experience for you.”

Baird nodded, his gaze hollow. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

“Do you have any idea who might have meant Professor Nash any harm.”

“I think... maybe I do,” Baird. In fact, I think you may know who did this.”

Riley heard Putnam’s sharp intake of breath. Apparently, this was a new declaration.

“Please, tell us anything that’s on your mind,” Riley urged. She needed to hear his story, parse his words for truth and deception alike.

Riley studied Cliff Baird as he spoke, his voice barely heard, “Nash had an enemy... Derek Aldrich. He’s an IT guy around here—spewed nothing but venom online about Robert.”

“Hostility like that doesn’t brew in a vacuum,” Ann Marie interjected with her polished tone, blue eyes probing. “Any idea what sparked such animosity?”

“An organization,” Baird replied, his brow creasing with the effort of recollection. “Aldrich is part of a group... they target academics, mathematicians mainly. Dedicated to tarnishing reputations.”

“An organization?” Riley echoed, her mind racing back to their interview with Levon Warren.

Could it be … ? She asked herself.

Ann Marie asked Baird the question that was on the tip of Riley’s tongue.

“Is the organization that Aldrich belongs to called the Cipher Society?”

Baird nodded with slight surprise at Ann Marie’s guess.

“Yes. That’s what they’re called. The Cipher Society.”

Ciphers, Riley thought, secrets, a code to disguise … what could that society be hiding?