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Riley was truly puzzled. Why would her high school friend think she could be assigned to investigate a death in her old hometown?

“Hoke, what do you mean?” Riley asked in surprise. With a touch of embarrassment, she added, “This isn’t an FBI case, is it?”

There was a pause on the other end, and then Hoke asked, “You mean you don’t know? I called for federal assistance yesterday.”

“I had no idea,” Riley admitted.

Of course, she knew she shouldn’t be surprised not to be in the loop about a case like this. As a lecturer at the Academy, she was usually the last to find out about active field cases unless they were particularly heinous or complex.

“Look, I just called you to find out more about Mrs. Whitfield’s death,” Riley explained. “I didn’t know anything about an ongoing FBI investigation. Can you tell me why you involved the FBI?”

“One of my officers recognized the killer’s M.O.,” Hoke replied. “Another person, Garrett Fenn, a math professor at Blenheim College in Roanoke, was killed in the same manner. I had to call in the feds when we saw the similarities.”

“Two math professors? Tell me about the M.O.,” Riley urged.

Hoke exhaled deeply, and when he spoke again, his voice had lost its usual steadiness.

“It’s brutal, Riley. And there’s an unsettling precision to it all—”

“Details, Hoke. I need specifics.”

He hesitated again, and she knew he was wondering about releasing details to someone not assigned to the case. Then he relented.

“Both victims were widowed and lived alone, and they were apparently taken by surprise in their homes late at night. They were both found sitting at their desks.”

“How were they killed?” Riley asked.

“They were both strangled. And... and here’s where it gets weird,” Hoke continued, his voice crackling with static through the phone line. “Their bodies were found with sheets of paper pinned to their backs.”

“Sheets of paper?” Riley’s voice echoed back her confusion. The detail seemed bizarre. She waited for Hoke to explain.

“They appeared to be student quizzes for algebra classes,” he said.

“Just a numbered list of equations to solve for x. The sort of generic handout any teacher might give students. It was like the killer was mocking the victims, putting signs on their backs labeling them as algebra teachers. Maybe the killer just hates algebra.”

Hoke’s guess made sense. In fact, it was probably the conclusion any FBI field agent might reach—that the sheets were gestures of mockery and nothing more. And yet …

Quizzes? Algebra? The juxtaposition of mundane academic exercises and two murders sent Riley’s mind reeling. It also brought another memory to mind.

“You remember how she used to hand out those quizzes like candy at Halloween?” Riley’s voice softened.

“Sure do,” Hoke replied. “I swear, I learned more about life in her algebra class than anywhere else. She had a way of making x and y matter beyond the paper.”

“Exactly,” Riley agreed, leaning back against her chair.

A silence fell as both of their minds drifted back to happier days.

“Mrs. Whitfield... she didn’t just teach us numbers,” Riley said. “She taught us resilience, how to face new problems head-on and solve them piece by piece.”

“She even made me enjoy math for a while there,” Hoke said, and Riley could almost see his rueful grin through the line. “Never thought I’d say that about algebra.”

“Neither did she, judging by your test scores,” Riley quipped, allowing the momentary levity to ease the sting of loss.

Hoke chuckled a little, then said, “Look, I’ll try to keep you in the loop about the case as much as I know. But it’s in the hands of an FBI team, and I’m not likely to know everything that’s going on. But hey—do you think you could get yourself assigned to the case?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Riley said. “I’m an Academy instructor now, not an active field agent.”

“Too bad.”

Yeah, it is, Riley thought unhappily.

“Take care, Hoke,” Riley murmured after a moment.

“You too, Riley.”

With a final click, the call ended, leaving Riley sitting at her desk in silence, gazing at the framed photo of her two daughters.

She had chosen mentorship over manhunts, decided to spend time at home with her family instead of traveling all over the country as she used to do. She knew she had made the right choice.

And yet …

Did she really have to stay on the bench while this case played out? The murder of her former teacher had happened right here in Virginia. The drive to Slippery Rock was less than four hours …

Riley made her decision. She strode out of her sanctuary of academia and crossed to the BAU building. When she reached the door to Special Agent in Charge Brent Meredith’s office, she knocked firmly, the sound echoing down the quiet hallway.

“Come in,” came the gruff reply.

Meredith’s office was the very image of minimalism and efficiency.

His desk was an expanse of clean lines and order, save for a single framed photograph of a mountain landscape that broke the monotony.

The African American man behind the desk matched his surroundings—broad-shouldered and imposing, with a face that rarely betrayed emotion.

Riley suddenly felt a familiar pang of intimidation in the presence of her boss.

“What is it, Agent Paige?” he asked.

“Sir, I was a student of Mrs. Margaret Whitfield, whose murder is now part of an FBI investigation,” Riley said, getting right to the point.

Meredith nodded, his expression neutral as he leaned back in his chair. “I’m familiar with the case. In fact, I assigned the team that’s investigating it.”

Riley swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’d like to be made part of that team, sir,” she said.

For a moment, Meredith’s eyebrows raised slightly, as if the request had managed to surprise even him. But his face quickly settled back into its usual stoic mask.

“Agent Paige, you haven’t worked in a field capacity for months now. You seemed eager to transition to teaching. What’s changed?”

“This is personal, sir,” she admitted.

She told him about Mrs. Whitfield, her high school algebra teacher, and how the woman’s encouragement had steered a rebellious teenager toward a path of purpose. When she finished, the silence was broken only by Meredith’s stern reply.

“What you’ve just told me is precisely why I can’t assign you to this case, Agent Paige. It’s far too personal for you. You’d lack the objectivity necessary to investigate effectively.”

She recognized the possible truth in his words. But she couldn’t let go of her desire to get involved—not yet.

“I understand, sir,” Riley began, steadying her voice. “But could you at least put me in touch with the case’s team head? Maybe I could provide some insight as someone who knew the victim.”

Meredith shook his head, his features immovable as carved stone. “No, Paige. I know from experience that giving you even an inch in a case like this is a bad idea. You’re too good at what you do, and you’d find a way to involve yourself more deeply than you should.”

“But sir …”

“I’m sorry, Agent Paige, but the answer is no.”

The refusal stung, but Riley nodded sharply, the soldier in her acknowledging the command, even as the investigator raged against it.

“Understood, sir,” she managed, her voice clipped.

Meredith looked weary as he leaned back in his chair, massaging the bridge of his nose.

“How’s your family, Agent Paige?” Meredith asked, shifting the conversation to a more personal note.

Riley smiled faintly. “The girls are doing well. April’s getting ready for her first year at Jefferson Bell University, and Jilly is doing well in school.”

Meredith nodded approvingly, his stern features softening slightly. “That’s good to hear. And now, if you’ve got nothing else to discuss…”

“Thank you for your time, Agent Meredith,” Riley said as she ended the conversation and turned on her heel, stepping into the cool corridor that felt suddenly oppressive. The conversation with Meredith had gone as she had feared, and her disappointment was strong.

Walking more slowly, Riley made her way back to her own office in the Academy building, where theories and profiles lined the walls, and also relics of cases she and Bill had solved together.

But today, those solved cases didn’t offer her their usual feeling of satisfaction.

Her connection to Mrs. Whitfield wasn’t just a thread to the past; it was a call to action, a debt of honor she owed to the woman who had once opened her eyes to the power of logic and numbers.

Briefly, she considered the problems of breaking protocol—accessing the details of the investigation directly. Meredith would disapprove strongly. But her decision was soon made.

With her next class looming, she knew she didn’t have much time. Riley turned to her computer, and with a few decisive strokes, she bypassed the layers of digital bureaucracy to access the restricted files.

As the images flickered to life on her screen, a visceral reaction clenched her gut. Mrs. Whitfield’s lifeless form sat upright in a chair of her home. Riley’s gaze lingered on the familiar features, now marred by the violence of her passing.

She zoomed in on the photographs, her attention drawn to the stark white sheet pinned to Mrs. Whitfield’s back. Hoke had been right; the worksheet was there, its equations a jarring contrast to the tragedy depicted.

Next, Riley opened the digital file bearing Professor Fenn’s name.

The same clinical sterility of crime scene photographs greeted her, but it was one similarity that ensnared her focus—the quiz sheet pinned to the victim’s back.

It was identical in form to the one on Mrs. Whitfield: a simple white page with a header indicating algebra, blank spaces for the student to write their name and date, and a different numbered list of equations below that.

There were also separate documents, photocopies that fully displayed the two individual sheets. The numbers swam before Riley’s eyes, taunting her with their hidden significance. She reached for a notepad, scribbling down the details, her mind already turning over the possibilities.

She leaned closer to her monitor, squinting at the screen as if proximity could grant her clarity.

“Could you be a message?” she murmured, tracing a finger along the glass that shielded the digital image from her touch.

She tried to work through an equation, her fingers stumbling over the keys as she attempted to coax her rusty math skills back to life, trying to recall the steps involved in solving for x.

Her attempts were clumsy, her knowledge rusted from years of disuse, buried under layers of criminal psychology and behavioral analysis.

Frustration pricked at her as she realized she was ill-equipped to untangle this aspect of the killer’s puzzle without assistance.

The numbers blurred before her eyes, symbols of a language she once spoke fluently but had since forgotten. They teased her, whispering secrets she couldn’t decipher, holding answers just out of reach.

“Damn it,” she said softly.

She knew that there was every likelihood that these sheets were nothing more than what they appeared to be—generic worksheets with no hidden message at all, pinned to the bodies in a gesture of crude mockery, just as Hoke had supposed.

But her gut told her otherwise, and the image of Mrs. Whitfield’s body was seared into her consciousness, daring her to look closer, to find the message hidden within the numbers.

She was sure that answers to those equations must contain clues.

The notion was wild, yet there was a connection here, a pattern she needed to uncover.

But to do so, she would have to venture beyond her own current limitations.

Re-learning basic algebra would take too long.

She had to reach out, seek help in a realm she’d abandoned.

She found the decision both humbling and oddly exhilarating.

She would find someone who could navigate these numerical waters, someone who could help her translate the killer’s cryptic choice of communication.

Closing her eyes briefly, Riley let go of her pride and prepared to delve into her past. Somewhere in the depths of her memory, among lessons learned and paths crossed, lay the key to unlocking the algebraic riddle before her.

She would find it, she vowed silently, for Mrs. Whitfield, for Professor Fenn, and for the justice they deserved.

A small smile played on her lips as an idea formed. She knew exactly who had the necessary skills to help her decipher these equations.