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REN

Princeton, New Jersey

T he train ride from Philadelphia to Princeton Junction was uneventful.

After transferring to the single-car “dinky,” Ren made the final leg of the journey to his alma mater.

Rather than call an Uber, Ren opted to walk across campus, revisiting the familiar dorms and academic buildings of his college life.

He was curious about Professor Abernathy’s texts. Ren swiped his phone and reread the two messages.

Milton: Can you come down for a visit? Say, day after tomorrow, mid-morning? Pluto learned a new trick.

That one excited him, but the second text was puzzling.

Milton: Casper, I just got the flash drive you sent. So sorry. It was delivered to the wrong address. That looks like The ostrich in the video. Can you call to explain? I’d love to catch up—it’s been ages.

After replying with a question mark, Ren decided Milton had sent the text to the wrong recipient. It wasn’t the first time.

Abernathy had been Ren’s thesis advisor, and they remained close. For the past eight years, Ren had been conferring with Milton on a research project based on a concept Ren developed while with the SEALs: remote DNA capture.

Six years ago, Ren and his SEAL squad were part of a search team covering a vast network of caves in northern Afghanistan. They were looking for an injured British soldier who had escaped a terrorist prison. Weeks later, a goat herder had found the body.

As they searched in vain for their comrade, Ren thought if there was only a way to search for someone’s DNA.

The idea was a seed in his mind that had slowly germinated.

Humans don’t simply bleed and sweat. They shed hair and skin cells constantly.

And while those cells don’t have nuclear DNA, they do hold mitochondrial DNA.

If a drone could be equipped to search for the presence of DNA and then capture and scan those cells to identify a specific person, the ability to locate missing service people would be revolutionized.

Moreover, the applications could extend to victims of trafficking, missing persons, and fugitives.

Professor Abernathy consulted with the armed forces and NASA on various projects, so as soon as Ren floated the concept, Abernathy assembled a team of distinguished physicists, geneticists, and aerospace engineers.

It had been years of exhaustive research punctuated by small breakthroughs and a lot of frustration.

Ren hoped his recent idea had yielded fruit.

He crossed Nassau Street and continued into the neighborhood opposite campus.

At Milton’s corner, the flashing lights brought Ren to a standstill. With a pit in his stomach and a nauseating sense of dread, Ren continued to his old friend’s house. In the driveway, two EMTs rolled a gurney with a bodybag toward the coroner’s van. A policeman stopped him.

“Are you family?”

“I’m a family friend. We were having lunch today,” Ren replied.

“I’m sorry. Looks like a heart attack. A neighbor discovered the body this morning.”

“Milton?”

The officer checked his notes. “Milton Abernathy, yes. Sorry for your loss.”

Ren swallowed his grief. He was no stranger to death, but Ren was closer to Milton than his own father. “Can I go inside?”

“A detective will have to escort you.”

Ren scanned the block. A few neighbors were standing on their stoops watching the activity.

Police were coming and going. Following the officer into the quaint home, Ren assessed the scene.

A center hall separated a dining room on the left and a parlor on the right.

Two matching throw pillows were on the carpet, and a cup sat on a coaster on the coffee table.

It was the mug Ren had given him for Christmas last year, a white mug with the physics joke in black lettering: Zero Flux Given.

“He was in here?” Ren asked.

The officer confirmed, “Neighbor found him on the floor there.”

Something wasn’t right. Milton used to joke that he went in that room so rarely he could hang a red velvet rope across the threshold like a museum display.

If Milton was alone, he was in his office; if he was with friends, it was in the kitchen.

Someone had been here, and it was not an intimate acquaintance.

Ren returned to the hall and went to the back of the house. Milton’s office looked as it typically did.

The policeman spoke over Ren’s shoulder, “At first, we thought maybe the place had been robbed, but the neighbor said it’s always like this.”

And she was right. The workspace did not reflect the clarity and focus of Milton Abernathy’s thoughts.

Milton was technologically adept, but at sixty-eight, he could be old school about certain things, one of which was paper.

He used to say, I like the weight of the pen in my hand.

Ren’s mentor made good use of that pen—three whiteboards filled with formulas blocked the windows.

Stacks of loose paper and file folders littered the desk.

Ren spotted Milton’s phone in the stand by the laptop. The screen was facing out.

Milton never put the phone in the stand like that—he always turned the screen away to eliminate distractions.

Ren jerked his chin toward the hall. “Can I look in the kitchen?”

When the patrolman turned to look over his shoulder, Ren pocketed the phone.

“Sure.”

Ren followed the cop into the tidy kitchen. Nothing was amiss. The sink and dish drainer were empty, and the red plastic tablecloth was clean.

On a hunch, Ren unhooked the first coffee mug hanging in a row under the cabinets. He tipped it into the sink and watched as a trickle of water ran out. That was the final confirmation he needed. Someone else had been in the house with Milton when he died.

Ren was analytical and deliberate. He seldom jumped to conclusions, but a dark theory formed as he stood in that kitchen holding the cup that someone had recently washed.

Whoever had been here had poisoned his friend, accessed Milton’s phone—and possibly his computer—then took steps to remove any evidence of their presence.

The cop cleared his throat. “Do you want to go upstairs? Because we need to wrap this up.”

Clearly, no one thought this was a crime scene—except Ren.

He flashed his project clearance badge to the officer.

“I need to speak with the person in charge. The professor was working on top-secret research. This entire house needs to be locked down until the team can get here and sort through the mess.” The wide-eyed officer rushed from the house.

Ren didn’t bother to mention his suspicions about Milton’s death. Getting the scene sealed off was enough. He’d return later when he could check Milton’s notes and computer to see what was really going on.

Out on the sidewalk, the coroner’s van had driven away, and the nosy neighbors had dispersed. He faced the house and said a silent goodbye to his friend.

That’s when he felt it—that prickle of awareness that he was being watched.

Without revealing his suspicion, Ren made a slow turn, scanning his surroundings.

Sensing movement behind a sturdy oak in the next yard, Ren zeroed in.

It could be a curious kid or a reporter.

A breeze shook the branches, and Ren caught the scent.

He lifted his nose like an apex predator sensing prey and inhaled the faint fragrance of gardenia.

It was impossible. Surely, his mind was playing tricks. Sofria was in Jordan, and she certainly wasn’t the only woman in the world who wore Casablanca Lily. To confirm his logic, Ren walked toward the massive tree.

“Doctor Jameson!”

Ren turned to find a neighbor approaching with Newton, Milton Abernathy’s dog. He knelt and scratched the enthusiastic mutt as Newton licked his chin.

“Oh, thank God I caught you.”

Ren searched his memory for her name. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Horn?”

She patted the dog’s head. “It’s Newton. My husband is allergic. We can’t take him. The policeman said to take him to the shelter, but—” She whispered conspiratorially, “—I know what happens to them if they don’t get adopted.”

Ren rose to his full height, and he swore Mrs. Horn blushed. “I’m sure it’s a no-kill shelter. They won’t euthanize him.”

She looked horrified. “I know that. I just mean the little jail cells and the loneliness. Plus, he’s grieving.”

Knowing he wouldn’t win, Ren agreed to take Newton. He’d drop the dog at the shelter on his way out of town. Leash in hand and fed up with everything about this day, he marched over to the mighty oak and checked behind it. Nothing. Ren shook his head with an amused chuckle.

After loading Newton in the passenger seat of Milton’s Volvo and running a quick search on his phone, Ren made his way to Furever Love Rescue.

In the parking lot of the shelter, Ren spoke to the dog.

“Look, buddy, they’re going to take good care of you here.”

Newton looked through the windshield without acknowledgment.

“You’ll have a new family before you know it.”

The dog swiped at his muzzle with his paw.

Ren tugged on his hair with both hands. “Godammit, I can’t have a dog. I’m never home. You’ll make a mess. It’s just… it’s just better this way.”

Newton rested his chin on Ren’s shoulder.

“Shit.”

With a pat on Newton’s head, Ren started the car. Then he messaged his teammate Jonah “Steady” Lockhart that he was heading to the airport.

Ren glanced at the dog. “Don’t look so smug.”

Newton remained stoic as his tail gently swept the seat.

An hour later, Ren walked by Steady at the top of the Bishop Security jet’s airstairs and boarded, with Newton trotting along beside him.

Ren held up his hand when Steady opened his mouth to comment.

“Don’t say a goddamn word.”

STELLA KEEN

T hat was close.

Stella had checked the tracker on Ren’s car and confirmed it was parked at his apartment in Beaufort—careless on her part.

Of course, one of his friends had driven him to the airport.

Steady had probably flown him to Philadelphia or Newark.

She drummed the steering wheel with her thumbs; she had slipped into her car unnoticed while Ren was distracted by the neighbor.

Stella had come to Princeton as Sofria Kirk.

Milton’s voicemail said he’d received a strange letter from an old colleague, Casper Capelli.

It contained a video on a flash drive, and he wanted Sofria to take a look.

In four years, Milton had never alerted her to any cause for concern, so his message got her attention—more so when she discovered the sender had been killed last year.

Now Milton was dead, too.

Stella needed to see that video. She could access Milton’s phone records, but not without alerting Hyperion.

The only way Stella could view the clip undetected was to watch it on Milton’s phone.

After confirming Ren had left, she walked to the trunk and opened the locked case.

With the ID in hand, Stella approached the police officer in the front yard securing the scene.

“Excuse me, ma’am, you can’t come in here.”

Stella flashed the badge. “Sherry Kritchfield, Homeland Security. The team will be arriving shortly. I’m going to take a quick look around.” She didn’t wait for the awe-struck officer to respond.

Inside the house, Stella wandered the vacant rooms feeling desolate. Milton Abernathy was more than a brilliant scientist; he was a kind soul. She allowed herself a moment to grieve, then boxed up her sadness and got back to work.

Stella quickly concluded Milton Abernathy had been murdered.

There was no indication of forced entry, and, based on the freshly washed coffee cup in the kitchen, Milton had entertained a guest—so, not a contract killing; Milton knew his attacker.

She just needed to get his phone and see that video.

Even if the killer had deleted it, he may not have done it properly if he wasn’t a professional.

She moved to Milton’s office and zeroed in on the empty phone stand.

She searched the desk drawers. An adapter for uploading a flash drive sat on top of a stack of file folders.

In the small wicker trash can under the desk, Stella found an envelope with a Baltimore postmark and a Post-it stuck to the front that explained the delay.

Dr. Abernathy had only just received a letter Casper Capelli sent last year.

Stella stared out the window at the big tree she had hidden behind.

Why was Ren even here? Could Milton have sent Ren the video?

Maybe it was simply a poorly timed visit.

They were colleagues, after all. She hated to admit how good it was to see him.

His intelligent eyes and aura of confidence soothed her somehow.

She only wished she could have the same effect on him.

The fractured chaos of her life brought peace to no one. Especially not her.

Stella was due to be in the Maldives, then to London to pose as Sabrina Kittridge and surveil Arvin Barnett. She would proceed as planned, but Stella needed to get a hold of that video clip before she left.

She pulled out her phone and reread the details of Casper Capelli’s mugging. As she brought up the train schedule and booked a ticket to Baltimore, Stella subtly scanned her surroundings; she had the troubling sensation that she was being watched.