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Riley stared back at Derek Aldrich, holding his gaze until he turned his dark eyes away.

“If you have information about a killer,” she told him. “You’d better just tell us. Withholding could bring you other charges.”

“Get it out now,” Putnam’s voice was hard. “What do you know?”

“Recently, the society has received some anonymous email,” Aldrich said. “Messages vowing revenge on those who wronged the society’s martyr.”

“What did these messages say exactly?” Riley prodded.

Aldrich closed his eyes. He recited from memory, “‘I vow by the sacred shrine we hold most dear to take the lives of those who destroyed Martha Lancaster.’”

“Take the lives” was a chilling promise, and Riley felt a shiver despite the warmth of the room. She watched Aldrich closely, attempting to decipher if his response was rehearsed or genuine, but she saw no telltale signs of deceit or evasion.

In her ultra-polite voice, Ann Marie asked, “Please tell us what is meant by ‘the sacred shrine we hold most dear.’“

“The sacred shrine,” Aldrich replied with a somber tone that verged on reverence, “refers to Martha Lancaster’s grave in the Kirkwood Hill Cemetery over in Slychester.

Cipher Society members consider it hallowed ground and sometimes make pilgrimages there.

I go there a lot, it’s just a short drive from here.

It’s a lovely place, almost worthy of her. ”

“But these emails suggest more than a pilgrimage to a gravesite,” Riley said. “They vow to take lives.”

“Indeed,” Aldrich confirmed. “And I believe the sender has already done that.”

Putnam looked like he might attack the young geek physically, so Riley hurried to speak again. “You’re saying you know who is behind these messages?” she asked calmly.

“Martha had a son,” Aldrich revealed. “Timothy. He was in his late teens when she—when it all happened.”

“Where is Timothy now?” Ann Marie asked, as though this was just a casual conversation. “Have you been in touch with him lately, Derek?”

“He was declared legally dead years ago,” he replied, his shoulders lifting in a shrug.” He disappeared not long after his mother’s death. Nobody heard from him again.”

“And what do you think, Derek?” Ann Marie asked in the same conversational tone as before. “Do you believe that Timothy Lancaster is dead?”

“If you want my personal input,” he replied. “My opinion is no.”

“I do value your opinion,” Ann Marie said with a smile. “So if you’re right and Timothy is still alive, can you tell us who else might be in danger from him?”

Riley saw the suspect’s face relax as he turned to Ann Marie.

She knows what she’s doing, Riley thought. He responds better to her because she’s young and pretty.

“No,” Aldrich replied, “But I don’t claim to understand how his mind works.”

“Thank you, Derek, I know you’re trying to help us. But you didn’t answer my other question. Have you seen him or heard from him yourself?”

He leaned toward Ann Marie when he answered. “No, it was like he vanished into thin air. But rumors persist within the society. Whispers that he’s still out there, somewhere.”

“And you agree, don’t you Derek?” Ann Marie chirped. “What can you tell us about that?”

Derek leaned back in his chair. He was calm, almost eerily so.

“I had been piecing together Timothy’s digital footprint.

It was like chasing a ghost through the internet—traces of activity under different aliases, sporadic appearances in obscure forums. It’s something I do pretty well.

And I thought maybe I was close to something when the stormtroopers interrupted my search. ”

“Why are you so certain no current member of the Cipher Society is behind these killings?” Putnam took the opportunity to get in a question.

Derek scoffed, shaking his head with an air of condescension. “That’s not how the society operates, Agent Putnam. That’s not the kind of people we are. We’re thinkers, analysts—not killers. Violence has never been part of our creed.”

Putnam bristled at the response, leaning forward until he was nearly nose-to-nose with Derek. “Or maybe,” he said, his voice rising with anger, “you’re concocting this elaborate story about Timothy Lancaster to shield one of your own. Maybe even yourself.”

Jonah Bell, the defense attorney, broke in smoothly, “My client has been cooperative. We’ve agreed to provide all the data from his investigation. It’s up to you to determine if it leads anywhere definitive.”

“Your story is full of holes, Aldrich,” Putnam spat.

Bell rose to his feet. “That’s it. We’re done here,” he declared. He called for the guard to return his client to his cell.

“Let’s go,” Riley said, getting to her feet.

Without comment, Putnam turned and stormed ahead out into the hallway, his shoulders rigid, a man clearly at odds with the world.

Detective Prendergast, who had been watching through the interrogation room’s 2-way mirror and listening to the interview over the intercom, met them in the hallway.

“Let’s talk this over,” he said, leading them toward a nearby conference room. The door closed with a decisive click behind them, and the three agents gathered around the polished surface of a conference table with the police detective.

Prendergast surveyed the group, his eyes asking the question before his lips formed the words. “Thoughts on what Derek just told us?”

Putnam, hands braced against the cool wood, leaned in. “It’s a fable,” he said dismissively. “This Timothy Lancaster—he’s a ghost, a Cipher Society myth.” There was conviction in his voice, the kind that left little room for doubt or debate.

Riley considered the ramifications. Was Derek using a legend to mask his own guilt?

Her instincts, honed by years of delving into the psyches of killers, told her otherwise.

And if Timothy Lancaster was alive, driven by a twisted sense of filial devotion, they were dealing with a killer molded by two decades of silent fury.

Her mind went back to the garage, where Robert Nash’s life had ended.

The air there had been thick with the scent of oil and metal, yet it wasn’t the disarray of tools or the car parts that had caught her attention; it was the meticulous placement of Nash’s body, the ritualistic arrangement that spoke louder than any confession.

It was reverence, she thought.

The killer had been reverent, like a son might be toward a departed parent. That was what she had felt in the cold space—a dark homage to something beyond mere violence.

She felt sure that each victim had been more than just a target; they were offerings, deliberate and carefully chosen.

Her instincts told her that these murders were personal.

A killer driven not by random impulse but by a deep-seated need for retribution would fit the part perfectly.

A son avenging his mother’s ruin, perhaps?

I’m all but sure of it, she thought.

But Riley knew she couldn’t talk about her feeling of connection with the killer, with her detection of a residue of reverence at the crime scene. She had to frame her thoughts differently.

But how?

“Your thoughts, Agent Paige?” Prendergast’s voice broke through her reverie, his eyes searching for an answer.

The room fell silent, every pair of eyes trained on her.

“It could be Timothy Lancaster,” she said. “Martha’s son... a person like that fits the profile for this kind of vendetta. In fact, I think he’s our most likely suspect.”

But what if I’m wrong? She wondered.

A gut feeling, however powerful, was only that—a feeling. She recognized that what she was suggesting had the potential for a breakthrough or a descent into a wild goose chase.

“Our most likely suspect?” Putnam scoffed. “A man who was declared dead years ago? Do you see any reason to believe he’s even alive?”

“If we have no evidence he’s actually dead, then we have to consider him as a strong possibility,” Riley replied.

“Other ideas?” Prendergast asked, turning to the group.

It was Ann Marie who spoke up next.

“We should consider the possibility that the killer might target someone from VEEM next. After all, that organization is at the center of this case. The rejection of Martha Lancaster’s bid to join VEEM was what precipitated her downfall.”

“Right,” Riley put in, nodding at Ann Marie’s suggestion. “And two of the victims were members. We should alert the board members and ensure they’re protected.”

They all agreed that was the way to proceed.

“Okay, we also have Aldrich’s computer from the raid,” Prendergast stated. “It needs to be checked out ASAP.”

“I’ll have it sent to our techs at Quantico right away,” Putnam said. “They can start digging for any trace of Timothy Lancaster.”

“That’s going to take time,” Prendergast said. “If he’s out there, if he still exists, and if he’s our killer, we need to find him before he can strike again.”

Riley watched as the gears of the investigation began to turn faster, each cog setting into motion the next phase of their search. She could feel the energy of the room build, a collective determination settling over the team.

“We need to focus on who his next intended victim might be,” she said, her tone shifting to one of urgency.

“That needs to be our main focus right now. If this killer is following a pattern, then we’re on borrowed time.

He killed his two most recent victims during the last two nights in a row. He’s accelerating his pace.”

Her colleagues understood the implications. She didn’t have to spell it out; if they were right about the murderer’s schedule, someone else was already marked for death that very night. And while the prospect of catching a killer was what drove them all, this was also about saving a life.

“Let’s get moving,” she urged, her thoughts on the lives that hung in the balance, the unseen face of a killer. A familiar race against the clock had begun.

She cast a sidelong glance at Ann Marie, who met her gaze with an unspoken understanding.

Riley knew they were thinking the same thing.

They needed to get in touch with Van Roff again.

With his knack for bending rules, he could delve into digital depths that others wouldn’t discover.

He might be their secret weapon in this hunt.

The conference room felt suddenly claustrophobic, the air charged with urgency. The window to prevent another tragedy was rapidly closing.